0 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS. 


THE  MANIAC'S  DREAM, 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS: 


BY 


HENRY  T.  FARMER,  M.D. 

MKMBKR    OF   THE    HISTORICAL    SOCIETY    OF    NEW-YORK. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  KIRK  &  MERCEIK, 

AND 
JOHN  MILLER,  COVENT  GARDEN, 

LONDON. 

William  A.   Merceia,  Printer. 

1819. 


Southern  District  of  New-  York,  ss. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  on  the  twenty-eighth  day  of 
April,  in  the  forty -third  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  Stales  of 
America,  Kirk  &  Mercein,  of  the  said  district,  have  deposited  in  this 
office  the  title  of  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  they  claim  as  Proprietors,  in 
the  words  following,  to  wit : 

"  Imagination;  The  Maniac's  Dream,  and  other  Poems;  03'  Henry 
T.  Farmer,  M.D.  Member  of  the  Historical  Society  of  New  York. 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled 
"  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of 
Maps,  Charts,  and  Books  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies, 
during  the  time  therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  an  Act,  entitled  "  An 
Act,  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled  an  Act  for  the  encouragement  of 
Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books  to  the 
authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  men 
tioned,  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing, 
engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  DILL, 
Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 

By  EDW'D.  TRENOR,  Asst.  Clk.  &c 


DEDICATION. 


TO  MRS.  CHARLES  BARING 

FAR  in  a  desert's  melancholy  wild, 
Where  seldom  dew-drop  wept,  or  sunbeam  smil'd, 
A  humble  flower  uprear'd  its  faded  form, 
Chill'd  by  the  wind,  and  shatter'd  by  the  storm, 
Its  early  leaves  were  from  the  branches  reft, 
And  scarce  a  trace  of  feeble  life  was  left; 
When  lo  !  a  minstrel  came,  whose  fostering  power 
Remov'd  it,  kindly,  to  a  cherish'd  bower; 
Where  it  had  thrived,  but,  still  by  fate  fore-doom'd, 
Though  buds  appear'd — that  flowret  never  bloonVd. 
So,  when  misfortune  o'er  my  childhood  prest, 
Didst  thou  translate  me  to  thy  fostering  breast; 
Bid  me,  'midst  fortune's  sunny  cliffs  aspire, 
You  sought  a  blossom — but  you  found  a  briar. 


8221.64 


DEDICATION. 

Accept  thy  strains,  for  if  there  be  one  tone, 
Endued  with  power,  to  make  the  exile  blest, 
Or  lend  a  momentary  dawn  of  rest, 
Such  cadence  is  an  echo  of  thine  own, 
That  stole,  o'er  mountain,  moor,  and  woodland  lone, 
The  faint  vibration  of  thy  lofty  lyre, 
Which  caught  my  youthful  ear,  and  jarr'd  my 
mouldering  wire. 

H.  T.  F. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

DEDICATION  vii 

Introduction  13 

Imagination              _....._  45 

On  the  Ruins  of  Sheldon  Church    -        ...  38 

The  Maniac's  Dream       ......  45 

On  the  Separation  of  Lord  and  Lady  Byron    -  54 

On  the  Death  of  Thomas  R.  Shepherd,  Esq.             «•  58 

Sonnet  to  Sorrow  62 

On  a  Jessamine        ----,_..  63 

On  a  Bluebell 65 

On  the  Moon  66 

On  seeing  an  Infant  asleep         .....  68 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Hodgkinson    -        ...  69 

The  Maid  of  Lodi 71 

Sonnet  to  Genius 73 


X  CONTENTS. 

To  Nature 74 

On  the  Death  of  Captain  E.  Coffin  -  77 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  David  Ramsay  79 

Battle  of  the  Isle 80 

Epilogue  to. the  Tragedy  of  Altorf    -  89 

To  the  JEolian  Harp 91 

On  Mind  92 

Lines,  written  in  a  blank  leaf  of  Burns'  Poems  93 

Epitaph  on  T.  L.  C.  Esq.  94 

On  hearing  a  Lady  sing            .....  96 

Sonnet  to  Despair            ......  97 

Sonnet  to  Genius     -------  98 

To  a  Withered  Rose 99 

Lines,  written  after  walking  late  in  a  Garden      -        -  100 

On  Worldly  Prudence     -        -        -        -        -        -  102 

Lines,  addressed  to  Miss  F.       ...        -  103 

Lines,  addressed  to  Miss  C.       -        -        -        -        -  104 

To  the  jEolian  Harp -  105 

Lines,  written  after  seeing  a  Painting  of  Malbone's    -  107 

Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  a  Lady  -        -        -        -  111 

Tribute  to  Mrs.  Barnes,  of  the  New-York  Theatre     -  115 

To  James  Eddy.  M.  D. 1 17 


CONTENTS.  xi 

Epitaph  on  the  Rev.  Andrew  M'CuIly  ...  ng 

An  Essay  on  Taste           -        -        -  --        -  119 

To  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  C.  W.  -  144 

To  Mrs.  Hartley,  of  the  New-York  Theatre      -        -  146 

To  an  Unfortunate  Lady          -  148 

To  Friendship  -        -  149 


Hassen  and  Zeolede ;  an  Eastern  Tale      -  151 


COME  lovely  \7irgin,  drest  in  vernal  flowers, 

Here  bend  thy  steps,  here  turn  thine  eyes  of  light; 
Without  thy  aid,  the  sky  of  Genius  lowers, 

And  Fancy  wanders  thro'  the  realms  of  night: 
Turn  lovely  maiden,  turn  thy  glances  bright 

On  him,  who  twines  a  garland  for  thy  hair, 
Who  seeks  thy  smile — then  bless  his  wandering  sight, 

For  thou  canst  chase  the  phantom  of  despair, 
Far  from  the  Poet's  breast — come  Inspiration  fair. 

Oh !  for  the  harp  that  lone  in  Ettrick  swings, 

'Neath  the  witch-elm  tree,  fam'd  in  minstrel  tale; 

Oh  !  for  the  bard  who  swept  its  trembling  strings 
On  Benvenue,  and  fair  Loch  Katrine's  vale, 
Old  Allan-Bane,  that  bending  wizard  pale. 

Deep,  in  a  ruin's  ivy-cover'd  walls, 

Unknown  to  Fame,  my  rustic  lyre  is  laid; 
It  only  murmurs  when  the  rain-drop  falls 

Upon  its  strings,  all  moulder'd  and  decay'd. 
o 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

Among  those  strings,  by  dampness  worn  away, 
The  flitting  fire-fly  shows  his  evening  light; 

O'er  that  sad  lyre  unnumher'd  glow-worms  stray, 
Like  restless  meteors,  o'er  the  vault  of  night. 

Come  Inspiration !  lift  it  from  the  ground, 

Restore  its  shatter'd  wire,  and  wonted  sound. 


IMAGINATION, 

THE  FRAGMENT  OF  A  POEM. 

METHOUGHT  last  night  a  stranger  guest 
Came  to  my  couch,  disturb'd  tny  rest, 
And  bade  me  hasten  to  explore 
With  him,  some  lone  mysterious  shore; 
His  face  was  pale,  his  long  beard  gray, 
He  murmur'd  softly — "  haste  away:" 
I  sought  the  stranger's  name  to  know; 
He  answer'd  pensively,  "  'tis  Wo." — 

A  marble  gateway  soon  appear'd, 
On  huge  Corinthian  pillars  rear'd; 
A  sentinel  this  gateway  kept, 
A  wizard  pale,  who  seldom  slept. 
His  mind  in  musing  trance  seem'd  bound, 
Unfinish'd  scrolls  were  scatter'd  round, 
Upon  his  brow  his  hand  was  prest, 
All  seem'd  not  well  about  his  breast; 


]  6  POEMS. 

His  glance  was  searching,  quick,  and  wild, 

And  fearful — for  he  never  smil'd. — 

By  time  his  feeble  form  was  bent, 

His  robe  was  old,  and  thin,  and  rent; 

To  leave  the  gate  he  seem'd  inclin'd, 

So  frequently  he  look'd  behind, 

As  if  upon  the  distant  plain 

Were  somewhat,  he  would  view  again. 

Well  did  this  restless  wizard  know, 

The  melancholy  form  of  Wo; 

The  latter  his  embraces  sought, 

Whispered  his  name,  and  called  him  "  Thought;" 

Shook  from  his  brow  the  bursting  tear, 

Led  to  a  cavern  damp  and  drear; 

Enter'd  its  wide  unseemly  door, 

Which  closed — and  they  were  seen  no  more. 

Soon  as  I  lost  my  pensive  guide, 
I  found  a  seraph  by  my  side, 
A  wreath  resplendent  bound  her  hair, 
The  leaves  that  never  rest  in  air, 
There  wildly  flutter'd,  and  the  hue 
By  turns  was  crimson,  green,  and  blue; 
For  all  those  leaves  of  aspine  bright 
Were  himin'd  by  the  prism's  light. 


POEMS.  17 

Her  sparkling  zone  I  scarce  could  view, 
So  frequently  the  maid  withdrew; 
And  when  again  I  scann'd  it  o'er, 
It  seem'd  to  differ  from  before; 
She  smiled  and  drew  a  circle  round 
Where  tranced  I  stood  on  fairy  ground, 

Then  vanish'd Oh !  thou  sprite  of  air — 

When  shall  I  meet  a  form  so  fair  ? 

The  hapless  Bard  when  sore  distress'd, 

If  with  thy  magic  visions  blest, 

Screens  from  the  wind  his  bosom  cold, 

And  wraps  around  thy  mantle's  fold; 

Bids  fell  reality  to  flee, 

And  sooths  his  soul  with  dreams  of  thee. 

I  wander'd  soon,  to  fairy  bowers, 

Hung  round  with  sweet,  embroider'd  flowers; 

Some  were  illum'd  with  brilliant  light, 

And  some  were  dark  as  pitchy  night, 

In  some  Love's  rosy  couch  was  spread, 

Whilst  others  held  the  silent  dead. 

Here,  near  a  torrent's  bursting  wave 

Reclined  Childe  BYRON,  on  a  grave; 

Beside  him,  loose  wild  flowers  were  spread-, 

Which  fell  from  off  his  aching  head. 

2* 


18  POEMS. 

And  left  the  willow  chaplet  bare 

Alone,  to  deck  his  sable  hair ; 

The  roses  fresh,  in  early  bloom, 

Had  wither'd  on  that  turf-clad  tomb; 

The  wreath  that  bound,  had  burst  apart, 

Sad  emblem  of  a  broken  heart. 

Who  sought  Childe  BYRON'S  hidden  cave  ? 

Who  visited  that  lonely  grave  ? 

Pale  Conrad's  ghost,  that  Corsair  drear, 

Sought  his  lost,  lov'd,  Medora  here; 

Here,  sometimes,  too,  with  bosom  bare, 

That  beauteous,  bloodstained,  shade  Gulnare, 

Would  steal  in  silent  hour  of  night, 

To  catch  one  glimpse  of  Conrad's  sprite ; 

And  here  alone,  full  many  an  hour 

The  broken-hearted,  frantic  Giaour, 

Would  gaze  upon  that  crystal  wave, 

And  seek  his  dark-hair'd  Leila's  grave. 

Anon,  I  heard  a  hollow  sound, 
A  sudden  horror  shook  the  ground  ! 
'Twas  he,  swift  o'er  a  distant  mead, 
The  Giaour  came  thundering  on  his  steed; 
Down,  down,  he  sprung  his  brow  to  lave; 
"  I  come,  he  paused — to  seek  her  grave — 


POEMS.  19 

"  I  come — in  grief  his  language  flovv'd; 

"  I  come — his  cheek  with  madness  glovv'd; 

"  I  come" — his  hand  thrice  smote  his  breast, 

A  bloody  mark  remain'd  imprest. 

"  I  come,  like  conquering  hero  proud, 

"  With  thee,  to  share  thy  snow-white  shroud. 

"  Leila!  thy  murderer's  blood  I've  spilt; 

"  Behold  this  faulchion's  shatter'd  hilt, 

"  Behold  this  caftan  too,  he  said, 

"  Arid  know  that  Hassan  curst,  is  dead. 

"  On  Lakura's  rude  flinty  stone, 

"  He  darkly  dwells,  nor  dwells  alone; 

"  Night's  dunnest  robe  now  hides  his  grave, 

"  He  hid  thee,  'neath  the  deep  blue  wave: 

"  I  come — I  fly,  like  warrior  proud, 

"  With  thee  to  share  thy  snow-white  shroud." 

He  plunged  into  the  fountain's  flood, 

And  tinged  its  waves  with  Hassan's  blood; 

But  that  clear  fountain's  sloping  shore, 

The  Giaour  shall  never  tread  it  more. 

Not  far  from  thence,  near  beauteous  grot, 
Reclin'd,  that  magic  minstrel,  SCOTT, 
With  harebell  wreath  his  brow  was  bound, 
With  Scotland's  sweetest  flowers,  wove  round  ; 


20  POEMS. 

A  slender  wand  own'd  his  control, 
And  it  had  power  to  lead  the  soul 
To  sorrow's  haunt,  or  fairy  grove, 
Or  Paphian  bovvers  design 'd  for  love  : 
Beside  him  hung  that  ready  lyre, 
Whose  sound  can  charm,  inflame,  inspire  ; 
The  witch-elm's  boughs  around  were  spread, 
Its  dead  bark  dropp'd  upon  his  head  ; 
He  plucked  some  sprigs  of  bending  yew, 
To  strew  the  grave  of  "  Roderick  Dhu ;" 
That  mountain  chieftain,  whose  command, 
Directed  fell  clan  Alpin's  baud. 
Who,  leaning  on  a  harp  his  head, 
Seem'd  to  bewail  fell  Roderic  dead  ? 
Old  Allan-Bane,  with  temples  bare, 
All  tangled  was  his  thin  gray  hair  ; 
His  sable  robe, that  drooped  around, 
The  wind  had  lifted  from  the  ground  ; 
Against  the  trembling  wire  it  swept, 
The  minstrel  rais'd  his  head,  and  wept : 
Like  sad  farewell,  when  friends  depart, 
That  sound  had  touch'd  his  aged  heart  : 
"  The  wind  may  wake  a  tender  strain, 
"  But  what !  shall  Roderic  wake  again  ? 


POEMS.  21 

"  Not  Ellen  Douglas,  were  she  near, 
"  To  scatter  rosebuds  o'er  his  bier  1" 
Then  through  the  shades  a  prelude  rung, 
And  thus  that  aged  minstrel  sung  : 

"  Low  in  the  earth  his  bleeding  body  lies  ; 
"  Yon  lovely  wildflower  withers  o'er  his  bier; 
"  Lone  in  her  hall  his  widowed  mother  sighs, 
"  She  cannot  shed  one  soul-relieving  tear  : 
"  Oh  L  to  her  bosom  when  shall  peace  return, 
"  And  sooth  her  senses  with  the  balm  of  rest  ? 
"  Never — it  withers  in  that  cold,  damp  urn, 
"  Which  bears  a  just  resemblance  to  her  breast. 
"  There  all  is  silent — there  the  spectre  Grief 
"  Spreads  a  dim  cloud,  and  slowly  damps  the  light : 
"  A  pale,  cold  hand,  there  proffers  her  relief, 
"  And  smooths  her  couch  in  Death's  long  starless  night. 
"  Oh  !  to  her  bosom  when  shall  peace  return, 
"  And  sooth  her  senses  with  the  balm  of  rest  ? 
"  Never — it  withers  in  that  cold,  damp  urn, 
"  Which  bears  a  just  resemblance  to  her  breast." 
#*##*##****# 
Calm,  pale,  dejected,  far  apart, 
With  folded  arms,  and  heavy  heart, 
Did  Minstrel  CAMPBELL  softly  sing, 
CAMPBELL,  the  bard  of  Wyoming ; 


22  POEMS. 

That  great  magician,  whose  control 

Soften'd  rude  Outalissa's  soul, 

And  o'er  sweet  Gertrude's  funeral  bier 

Bade  flow  his  first  and  latest  tear. 

There  was  a  melancholy  grace 

Upon  his  thoughtful,  care-worn  face, 

And  on  his  pallid  brow  deject, 

Seem'd  writ  that  chilling  word,  neglect. 

A  waving  cypress-wreath  he  wore, 

He,  careless,  seem'd  to  seek  no  more  ; 

Though  every  cultivated  flower 

That  blooms  in  Beauty's  freshest  bower, 

That  e'er  o'er  Fancy's  robe  was  spread, 

Or  bound  Imagination's  head  ; 

Nay,  even  Variety's  gay  store 

Was  offered  ;  but  he  sought  no  more. 

To  distant  climes  he  look'd  for  rest, 

By  Hope's  soul-cheering  presence  blest ; 

That  soft  enchantress,  nymph  divine, 

Round  whom  unnumber'd  beacons  shine  ; 

The  least  of  which  has  power  to  light 

Despair's  lone  sedentary  night. 

Oh !  what  would  this  world's  desert  be, 

Were  it  not,  maid  of  Heaven,  for  thee  ? 


POEMS. 

MOORE  seem'd  in  silence  to  deplore 
The  fate  of  that  unhappy  shore, 
By  various  bards  of  old  confest, 
The  sweetest  isle  on  Ocean's  breast. 
The  rose  perpetual  deck'd  his  head, 
From  some  lone  buds  the  hues  had  fled; 
But  others  freshly  bloom'd  in  air, 
Like  cheek  of  virgin  beauty,  fair; 
A  sparkling  zone  around  was  brac'd, 
Pluck'd  from  the  Muse's  slender  waist, 
Who  gaily  danc'd  in  pleasure's  bowers, 
With  this  he  bound  his  tiara-flowers. 
Anon,  he  struck  the  sounding  lyre, 
And  sung  the  deeds  of  patriot  fire 
In  tones  so  loud,  so  wild,  and  deep, 
They  waken'd  Echo  from  his  sleep : 
He  stopt  to  dry  a  bursting  tear, 
And  laid  his  harp  on  EMMET'S  bier  ! 
ANACREON,  from  an  amber  cloud, 
Call'd  upon  MOORE  to  leave  that  shroud; 
Bade  him  his  harp  with  flowers  to  twine, 
And  drown  his  woes  in  rosy  wine  ; 
Or  join  the  airy  syren  train, 
Which  love  had  bound  in  silken  chain; 


24  POEMS. 

In  vain — he  would  not  join  the  throng 
That  swept  in  giddy  dance  along; 
He  notic'd  not  their  garish  wiles, 
Nor  would  he  clothe  his  face  in  smiles. 
"  Think'st  thou  no  real  bliss  is  found, 
"  Save  in  fantastic  pleasure's  round  ?" 
Within  the  melancholy  breast 
The  soul  of  Genius  seeks  for. rest; 
There  she  forgets  all  worldly  pelf, 
And  finds  new  beauties  in  herself; 
So,  in  the  damp  and  ruin'd  tower 
Blooms  many  a  wiid  ambrosial  flower, 
And,  in  the  sad  and  gloomy  mine, 
Golconda's  brightest  jewels  shine. 

Along  the  grove  there  flashed  a  light 
That  quickly  caught  my  aching  sight; 
A  lofty  pile  appear'd  on  fire  ; 
'Twas  a  funereal  Eastern  pyre, 
Beside  the  flame,  on  golden  bed, 
Kehama's  vengeful  son  lay  dead; 
In  trance  stood  SOUTHEY  near  the  hearse, 
As  if  he  bore  that  Sultan's  curse  :- — 
Around  the  poets's  wildered  head 
A  blooming  lotos  wreath  was  spread; 


POEMS. 

For  he  distlain'd  a  flower  to  wear 
That  did  not  bloom  in  Eastern  air, 
Though  Genius  bright,  with  aspect  sweet, 
Cast  many  a  rosebud  at  his  feet: 
For  Fancy  loved  this  restless  wight; 
But  he,  alas  !  loved  Fancy's  sprite; 
He  seem'd  to  shun  her  real  charms, 
And  woo  a  shadow  to  his  arms. 

**##*#*###• 
Lone,  near  a  willow's  drooping  shade, 
Was  BURNS,  the  pride  of  Scotia,  laid, 
And  near  him  many  a  cowslip  grew, 
And  o'er  him  many  a  daisy  blew; 
Above  him,  waving  blue-bells  swung, 
On  a  dead  larch  his  lyre  was  hung; 
Its  form  had  almost  pass'd  away, 
Approach'd  by  that  fell  blast,  decay; 
It  seem'd,  as  moving  slow  in  air, 
The  fated  omen  of  despair  : 
So,  while  he  lived,  his  breast  was  rent, 
So  was  his  noble  spirit  bent; 
No  pale  star  cheer'd  his  eve  of  gloom, 
His  bosom  was  joy's  rayless  tomb; 
And  many  a  pealing  storm  of  care 

Found  his  ill  fated  temples  bare; 
3 


26  POEMS. 

Until,  by  frequent  chills  depress'd, 
He  fell — and  found  that  blessing — rest  I 
I  deck'd  his  moulder'd  harp  once  more, 
With  vines  and  flotvrets  strew'd  it  o'er; 
Around  the  strings,  all  damp,  decay'd, 
The  hyacinthine  tendrils  stray'd, 
And  hid  the  wreck  with  seeming  art, 
Like  smiles  that  hide  the  broken  heart. 
***#**#*•**# 
The  wind,  in  darken'd  column  wound, 
Came  sweeping  headlong  o'er  the  ground; 
Just  at  my  feet  that  whirlwind  stopp'd, 
And  from  the  midst  a  coffin  dropt; 
Which  still,  in  hurried  circle,  turn'd, 
Till  off  its  mouldering  top  was  spurn'd: 
Then,  clad  in  ample  folds  of  white, 
Appear'd  a  melancholy  sprite, 
His  face,  half  veil'd  beneath  a  shroud, 
Like  moonbeams  by  a  wintry  cloud, 
Was  youthful — but  the  fiend  Despair 
Had  fix'd  her  dreadful  signet  there  : 
A  hemlock  crown  the  spectre  wore, 
With  glow-worms  thickly  cover'd  o'er, 
Where'er  he  journey'd  through  the  night. 
Around  his  brow  they  cast  a  light, 


POEMS. 

And  show'd  his  eyes  like  stars  of  day, 
Whose  fires  have  almost  pass'd  away. 
Some  hemlock  from  his  brow  he  took, 
Steep'd  it  within  the  running  brook; 
A  cup  he  drew,  from  'neath  his  gown, 
And  drank  the  cursed  poison  down. 
One  sentence  from  his  pale  lips  broke, 
These  words  that  youthful  phantom  spoke : 
"  Oh ! — bear  me  from  the  face  of  day, 
"  Bear  me  to  Lethe's  cave  away; 
"  Give  CHATTERTON  a  quick  release, 
"  And  yield  his  aching  bosom  peace. "*— 
Oh  ! — born  to  sound  the  Minstrel's  lyre, 
Glowing  with  all  the  poet's  fire; 
Thine  early  light  beam'd  fresh  and  gay, 
Like  hills  on  which  the  sunbeams  play; 
But  Want  was  doom'd  those  hills  to  blight, 
And  rob  their  sunny  cliffs  of  light. 
Ye  who  for  misery  never  feel, 
Think  ye  that  CHATTERTON  could  steal; 
And  ye  who  cavil  o'er  his  end, 
When  have  ye  prov'd  the  wretch's  friend  ? 
Far  be  it  from  the  muse  to  spread 
A  spotless  garland  o'er  the  dead; 


8  POEMS. 

She  fears  to  scatter  one  fair  bud, 

Lest  she  should  stain  its  leaves  with  blood : 

Extenuation  pleads  this  truth, 

His  mind  unform'd,  his  morn  of  youth; 

Near  him  he  saw  no  kindred  mind, 

The  world's  success  he  could  not  find; 

That  world,  deceitful  and  uneven, 

He  left,  and  sought  the  way  to  heaven; 

But  urged  by  madness  and  despair, 

He  dar'd  become  an  outlaw  there; 

He  left,  on  earth,  affliction's  rod, 

And  sought  with  guilty  hand  his  God. 

A  female*  form  stole  gently  by, 
Like  white  clouds  o'er  an  autumn  sky, 
Pale  was  her  cheek,  her  eye  distress'd, 
Like  summer's  flower  on  winter's  breast; 
Of  sorrow's  plaint  she  did  not  speak, 
But,  it  was  written  on  her  cheek; 
What  in  that  forceful  brow  was  told, 
The  Sybil  did  not  write  of  old  : 
It  was  the  language  most  admir'd 
By  kindred  souls,  the  thought  inspired 

*  The  person  to  whom  this  Poem  is  dedicated. 


POEMS. 

Which  speaks  within  the  poet's  eye, 

And  utters  volumes  in  a  sigh; 

'Tis  understood  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  fairy  language  of  the  soul : 

Her  bosom  to  the  winds  was  bare, 

One  rose-bud  drest  her  flowing  hair; 

Harsh  was  the  piercing  wreath  that  bound  it, 

For  briars  were  closely  twisted  round  it. 

They  seem'd  against  the  flower  to  press. 

Like  beauty  wounded  by  distress  : 

A  spectre  followed  close  behind, 

Who  steals  from  truth,  and  preys  on  mind; 

Who  haunts  perfection's  lonely  bed, 

And  plucks  the  pillow  from  her  head; 

Who   rides  imperious  o'er  the  wild, 

And  leads  in  bondage,  Fancy's  child  : 

When  pointed  lightning  cleaves  the  sky, 

It  spares  the  low,  but  blasts  the  high  : 

While  humble  shrubs  unhurt  are  bent, 

The  towering  pine  in  pieces  rent, 

Leaves  his  exalted  throne  at  last, 

And  headlong  to  the  earth  is  cast ; 

So  genius,  fancy,  worth,  renown, 

Are  pluek'd  by  rancorous  Envy  down  : 

3* 


)  POEMS. 

Oh !  when  shall  cease  thy  fell  control, 
Thou  baneful  vampyre  of  the  soul  ? 

Fast  by  I  saw  a  streamlet  glide, 

The  stranger  gaz'd  upon  its  tide, 

And  pour'd  its  cold  wave  on  her  head; 

The  rose  was  wither'd  now,  and  dead; 

The  briar-wreath  from  her  brow  was  swept., 

She  wearied  fell and  falling  slept; 

Her  mind  seem'd  tranquil  and  beguil'd, 
For  in  that  trance  of  sleep,  she  smiled  : 
When  lo  !  the  tragic  muse  drew  nigh, 
I  saw  her  start,  but  heard  no  sigh; 
Nay,  she  betray 'd  no  sullen  frown, 
But  laid  her  cup  and  dagger  down; 
Knelt,  where  the  lonely  stranger  slept, 
Strew'd  flowers  upon  her  breast,  and  wept. 
The  fallen  wreath  of  thorns  she  broke, 
Look'd  up  to  heaven,  and  siglvd and  spoke 

"I've  laid  my  cup  and  dagger  by, 

"  Steel  need  not  wound  thy  soul; 

"  Thy  dagger  is  affliction's  sigh, 

"  And  wo  thy  poison'd  bowl. 

"  Sleep,  and  I'll  bring  thee  magic  spells 

"  From  that  delusive  shore, 


POEMS.  31 

"  Where  bliss  in  fairy  confine  dwells, 

"  And  Wo  is  seen  no  more  : 

"  I  love  thee  for  thy  sufferings  past; 

"  Pale  sister  this  we  know, 

"  No  friendship  shall  so  surely  last, 

"  As  one  that's  formed  by  Wo. 

"  Sleep  !  and  I'll  bring  thee  magic  spells 

"  From  that  enchanting  shore, 

"  Where  bliss  in  fairy  confine  dwells, 

"  And  grief  is  seen  no  more. 

"  Since  no  one  binds  thy  sleeping  brow 

"  With  flowret,  sprig,  or  vine, 

"  I'll  leave  this  chaplet  with  thee  now, 

"  'Twill  suit  thee — for  'twas  mine  : 

"  'Twas  torn  from  winter's  blasted  heath. 

"  'Midst  drifted  hills  of  snow; 

"  A  maniac  Druid  form'd  the  wreath 

"  Of  weeds  and  misleto: 

"  The  leaf  with  bloody  drops  is  red, 

"  Fresh  from  '•  Virginia's"*  side; 

"  This  lock  I  pluck'd  from  Dabdin's]  head, 

"  Just  as  the  monarch  died. 

*  Heroine  of  the  Tragedy  of  "  Virginia." 
t  Dabdin,  hero  of  the  Tragedy  of  "  The  Royal  Recluse." 
These  plays  were  written  by  the  lady  beforementioned. 


32  POEMS. 

"Soft!  I  must  bid  a  sad  farewell, 
"  My  shadowy  court  is  near; 
"  I  hear  sad  Zeuleme's*  passing  knell, 
"  And  go  to  deck  her  bier. 
"  Sleep,  and  I'll  bring  thee  magic  spells 
"  From  that  enchanting  shore, 
"  Where  hope  in  fairy  confine  dwells, 
"  And  grief  is  seen  no  more." 
*#**##*#*#* 
I  saw  a  rock  o'erhang  the  deep, 

Like  terror  o'er  the  couch  of  sleep; 

And  leaning  on  its  flinty  side, 

MONTGOMERY'S  wo-struck  form  I  spied; 

His  night-shade  wreath  with  blight  was  dead. 

The  cold  dew  dropp'd  upon  his  head  : 

If  ever  on  the  brow  was  drawn 

The  character  of  soul  forlorn; 

If  ever  real  wo  could  speak 

In  language  of  the  eye,  or  cheek, 

Sure  that  lone  bard,  of  peace  bereft, 

Had  scarce  a  single  blessing  left; 

So  pale  his  cheek,  so  sunk  his  eye, 

So  blighted  o'er  with  misery. 

• 

To  him  the  muse  brought  gems  of  yore, 
That  gleam'd  on  Eden's  happy  shore; 

*  Zeuleme,  heroine  of  a  Tragedy. 


POEMS.  33 

Show'd  him  the  minstrel  Jubal's  lyre, 
Which,  like  his  own,  could  once  inspire; 
Pointed  the  plain  where  Abel  stood, 
When  Cain,  accursed,  shed  his  blood. 
She  led  him  to  those  spicy  bowers, 
Where  Eve  first  press'd  a  couch  of  flowers 
Where  Innocence,  her  handmaid,  stray'd, 
And  drest  in  rosy  folds  the  maid, 
E'er  from  the  shade  she  sought  the  light, 
And  burst  on  Adam's  raptured  sight. 
The  lovely  flowers  which  there  entwin'd, 
Were  splendid,  as  MONTGOMERY'S  mind; 
But  now  their  passing  charms  have  fled, 
Hope's  evergreen  is  almost  dead; 
Whose  branches  wear  continual  bloom, 
And  drop  their  blossoms  on  the  tomb. 
E'en  thou  lone  bard,  when  cold  and  dead, 
Shall  wear  fresh  garlands  round  thy  head; 
Above  thy  melancholy  tomb 
Shall  sprigs  of  fragrant  cassia  bloom, 
And  youthful  poets  seek  thy  bier, 
And  beauty  bless  thee — with  a  tear. 

Far  o'er  a  blasted  heath  alone, 
A  pillar  stood  of  marble  stone; 


3  l  POEMS. 

Its  capital,  and  slender  form, 
Were  rifted  by  the  thunder  storm; 
In  bonnet  blue,  and  Scotland's  plaid, 
Near  that  tall  spire  a  minstrel*  play'd; 
He  sung  of  Scotland's  Queen  and  State, 
Of  Rizzio's  harp,  and  Mary's  fate, 
And  Ila  Moore,  "  Kincraigy's"  child, 
Who  far,  o'er  haunted  mountain  wild, 
Though  young,  and  fair,  and  lone,  and  poor, 
Sought  "  Mador,"  minstrel  of  the  moor: 
The  sounds  stole  gently  o'er  the  plain; 
So  sleep  steals  o'er  the  brow  of  pain; 
But  soon  the  trembling  strain  was  o'er, 
The  echo  spirit  sung  no  more; 
And  when  the  last  sad  murmur  died, 
Deeply  that  woodland  phantom  sigh'd. 
So  Hope,  when  every  joy  is  past, 
Sighing  takes  leave — but  goes  the  last. 
He  rais'd  his  brow,  he  dried  a  tear, 
When  lo  !  he  saw  Lord  BYRON  near; 
He  dropp'd  the  lyre,  and  hung  his  head. 
As  though  his  minstrel  skill  had  fled; 

*  Hogg. 


POEMS.  35 

But  why  ?  for  merit  never  knew 
A  judge  more  skill'd,  a  friend  more  true  : 
From  him,  where  is  the  real  bard 
Who  sought,  and  did  not  find  regard  ? 
He,*  who  bade  murd'rous  Bertram  tear 
A  gauntlet  from  his  coal  black  hair, 
And  raise  his  fell  vindictive  hand, 
In  secret,  'gainst  Lord  Aldobrand  : 
By  woe's  o'erwhelming  power  was  prest, 
Unknown,  unfriended,  and  unblest, 
Till  BYRON  came — then  sorrow  fled, 
And  fame  rul'd  o'er  his  bower  instead, 
And  he  was  hail'd  with  plaudits  loud, 
Not  by  the  undistinguish'd  crowd, 
But  by  the  gifted,  who  could  view 
At  once  the  light  and  shadow  too. 

Childe  BYRON  took  the  minstrel's  lyre, 
And  swept,  with  force,  the  bending  wire; 
His  wildc'r'd  touch  it  could  not  stand, 
But  snapp'd  beneath  his  ruling  hand  : 
Then,  with  no  soft,  or  gentle  tone, 
He  sternly  turn'd,  and  gave  his  own  : 

••»  Maturin. 


35  POEMS. 

His  friendly  words  have  still  been  few. 

His  part  is  not  to  say — but  do. 

Oh  !  I  have  known  the  sweetest  smile, 

And  softest  murmur,  harbour  guile; 

E'en  in  Elysium's  field  we  meet 

The  deadly  serpent  of  deceit : 

The  storm  foretells  its  ruthless  power, 

Its  clouds,  like  threat'ning  heralds,  lower; 

In  Egypt,  e'er  the  blast  of  sand 

Whirls  headlong,  o'er  the  desert  strand; 

Or  that  quick  wind,  whose  burning  breath 

Deals  to  the  hapless  wanderer  death; 

Some  warning  voice,  some  mark  of  care, 

Bids  the  ill-fated  wretch  beware; 

But  who,  when  thy  fell  smile  is  nigh, 

Whispers  thy  name,  Hypocrisy ! 

And  yet,  the  wretch's  harshest  doom, 

The  blast  of  sand,  the  fell  simoom, 

The  lightning's  bolt,  the  mountain  sea. 

Yield,  in  destructive  force,  to  thee. 


POEMS.  37 

CONCLUSION. 

Once  more  I  leave  thee,  in  thy  ruin'd  cave, 

There  the  cold  rain-drop  may  thy  strain  renew; 
Or  bursting  storms,  that  thro'  thy  dwelling  rave, 

Or  rustling  vines,  that  bend  with  morning  dew. 
Here,  should  the  wanderer  seek  his  evening  rest, 

And  cast  his  body  on  the  leafless  ground, 
May  fairies  scatter  roses  o'er  his  breast, 

And  zephyrs  raise  a  soft  delusive  sound; 
Such  as  the  musing  pilgrim  faintly  hears, 
In  vision  blest — the  music  of  the  spheres. 


38  POEMS. 


ON  THE  RUINS  OF  SHELDON  CHURCH, 

HEAR    BEAUFORT,  "SOUTH-CAROLINA. 

LIKE  chieftain,  gray  with  many  years, 
Whose  armour  hack'd  and  rent  appears, 
Whose  shield  is  pierc'd  with  battle  spears, 
Whose  helm  its  tangled  plumage  rears, 

To  waive  in  air; 

Is  this  high  temple,  drear  and  lone, 
For  time  hath  grayed  its  marble  stone; 
Its  columns  are  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
The  echo-sprite  hath  built  his  throne 

Upon  its  turrets  bare  : 
Like  stately  lady,  bright  and  fair, 
With  eyes  that  shame  the  diamond's  glare, 
And  form,  like  sylphic  sprite  of  air, 
And  rosy  cheeks,  and  flowing  hair, 

And  spirits  gay, 

So  did  this  temple  bless  the  sight, 
The  sun-beam  clad  its  steeple  height, 


POEMS.  30 

And  drest  the  walls  in  mantle  light, 
Till  ruin  came,  with  cloak  of  night, 

To  pall  the  day, 
Burst  the  huge  door  with  arm  of  might, 

And  let,  therein,  decay. 

Hail,  sacred  remnant  of  the  times  long  past! 
Hail  to  thy  shatter'd  walls;  the  drooping  vines 
That  linger  on  thy  roof,  like  me  seem  joyless 
At  thy  wildered  state,  and  mourn  thine  honours  past. 
On  yon  tall  column,  where  the  woodbine  flower 
Displays  its  crimson  folds,  sits  pale  Decay, 
With  eyes  long  dimm'd  by  age,  and  sunken  cheek, 
And  hair  all  tangled  by  the  win'tery  storm  : 
He  is  related  to  the  wanderer  Time, 
And  near  akin  to  fell  destructive  Death. 
Oh  Time  !  destroyer  of  the  bloom  of  youth, 
Of  thought,  and  love,  and  health;  what  change  appears 
Since  first  this  structure  rear'd  its  sacred  head, 
And  strength  and  beauty  reign'd  upon  its  front. 
Once  in  these  walls,  religion's  hallow'd  voice, 
Gave  thankful  praise  to  Him  who  rules  supreme  : 
Once  in  these  walls,  rung  music's  swelling  peals 
And  minstrelsy,  of  virgins  in  their  bloom: 
But  now,  the  railings  of  the  surly  blast, 


40  POEMS. 

Or  deep-ten'd  thunder  of  the  midnight  storm, 

Or  gushing  torrent  of  descending  rain, 

Alone  break  silence  here.    Here,  has  the  youth 

Put  up  his  fervent  prayer,  and  begg'd  the  nymph 

Who  bless'd  his  soul  with  love; 

Here,  has  the  elder  man,  with  furrow'd  cheek, 

And  eye  of  sorrow's  melancholy  cast, 

Retir'd  to  pray,  for  rest  and  peace  in  heaven; 

And  here,  the  maiden  blush  of  pure  delight, 

Has  revell'd  on  the  blooming,  youthful  cheek, 

When  the  bright  eye  of  him  the  nymph  held  dear, 

Came  in  soft  contact  with  her  modest  glance, 

And  spake  the  fairy  language,  taught  by  love. 

The  toiling  slave,  his  weekly  duty  done, 

In  the  short  space  that  rests  his  weary  limbs, 

Has  wandered  here,  to  learn  the  laws  of  heaven. 

Oh,  hapless  slave  !  for  whom  nor  law,  nor  right, 

Nor  kind  protection,  ever  plead  on  earth, 

There  may  a  time  arrive,  when  thy  bruis'd  reed 

Shall  waive  in  freshest  meed  of  flowers. 

The  vow  of  lasting  love  hath  here  been  made, 

And  the  pure  altar  bound  in  silken  chain 

The  youthful  votaries  of  Hymenial  bliss. 

Alas,  Matilda ! — here  thy  youthful  swain 

First  told  his  tender  tale,  when  evening  lin'd, 


POEMS.  4 1 

With  orient  gold,  the  west :  here  did  he  breathe 
The  magic  soft  discourse,  that  gain'd  thy  spotless  heart. 
Near  yon  lone  willow  didst  thou  love  to  roam : 
In  life,  it  drooped  around  thine  auburn  locks, 
But  now — waives  o'er  thy  turf-clad,  mouldering  grave. 
Raymond  was  young,  and  health's  ambrosial  tint 
Glovv'd  on  his  manly  cheek;  the  ways  of  truth 
He  loved,  and  early  had  been  taught  the  lowly 

Wiles  of  baseness  to  despise. 

The  reverend  man,  whose  life  from  youth  to  age, 

Had  been  devoted  to  the  ways  of  heaven, 

Here  join'd  their  hands,  and  here  their  fates  were  join'd. 

Oh  life  !  in  thy  dull  round  of  measured  time, 

There  is  no  joy  so  pure  as  hallow 'd  love: 

Oh  earth  !  no  flower  upon  thy  bosom  blooms, 

So  rich  in  tincture  as  Matilda's  cheek; 

Nor  hath  thy  hidden  cavern  one  rare  gem, 

So  purely  radiant  as  her  sparkling  eye, 

Or  half  so  brilliant  as  her  soul's  intent. 

Their  days  pass'd  on,  in  gently  smiling  peace, 

Till  three  short  months  had  crown'd  their  mutual  bliss, 

When  Fate,  grew. envious  of  their  happy  state, 

And  wrought  a  work  of  fiendlike  dark  design. 


42  POEMS. 

When  early  morning  waiv'd  her  flag  of  blue, 
And  shook  the  dew-drops  from  her  rosy  crown, 
Young  Raymond  cross'd  Port  Royal's  placid  wave, 
No  breath  of  air  upon  its  surface  play'd, 
The  Nereids  slept  within  their  coral  bowers  ; 
But  when  dull  evening,  with  her  sombre  pall, 
Hover'd  above  the  world,  bleak  winds  arose, 
And  tempests  hurl'd  their  gloomy  vengeance  down, 
And  ruffian  Horror,  from  a  throne  high  raised 
Upon  a  vasty  wreck,  laugh'd  hoarsely  loud, 

To  see  the  hideous  uproar  rage  so  fierce. 

Ah,  luckless  maid  !  where  is  thy  Raymond  now  ? 
He,  whom  the  morning  hail'd  with  rosy  cheek, 
And  glowing  pulse  of  health — Where  is  he  now  ? 
Not  in  his  peaceful  dwelling  blest  with  thee, 
Nor  list'ning  to  the  music  of  thy  voice  ; 
Nor  gazing  on  thy  vermil  painted  cheek. 
Ill-fated  youth !   before  he  gain'd  the  beach, 
A  sudden  whirlwind  plunged  him  in  the  deep, 
The  hand  of  darkness  shadowed  o'er  his  brow, 
And  pallid  faintness  chill'd  his  clay-cold  limbs. 

He  strove  in  vain the  ruthless  wind  was  loud; 

He  strove  in  vain the  angry  flood  was  deep  ; 

He  strove  in  vain— — for  life  forsook  his  breast, 


POEMS.  43 

While  his  last  accents  linger'd  on  the  name 
Of  'lorn  Matilda,  doom'd  to  mourn  his  fate. 

( 

Too  soon  the  fatal  story  reach'd  her  ear} 
And  yet — no  sigh  bespoke  her  grief;  no  tear 
Bedew'd  her  cheek;  but  a  wild  laugh  foretold 
That  sanity  had  left  the  throne  of  her 
Distracted  breast — for  two  long,  weary,  days, 
She  neither  spoke  nor  wept;  but  when  lone  night 
(Array'd  in  plumes  of  dark,  mysterious  hue, 
O'er  which  were  thinly  spread  small  diamond  sparks,) 
Resum'd  her  sable  throne,  she  wandered  forth 
Into  yon  gloomy,  unfrequented  wood, 
Where  wild  distraction  thus  betray'd  her  grief. 
"  Oh  !  never — never — my  thirsty  brain  is  moulder'd 
"  Into  dry  dust — my  heart  is  chain'd  in  ice. 
"  Wretch,  bathe  thy  temples  in  yon  mighty  wave, 
"  Plunge  quickly,  that  the  hissing  spray  may  splash 
"  The  stars,  and  cause  a  din  so  clamorous  and  loud, 
."  That  Echo  shall  scream  back  its  counterpart! 
'  Cold,  say'st  thou,  love  ?  my  heart  is  chain'd  in  ice, 
'  But  in  my  brain  there  is  a  burning  spark, 
:'  Shall  quickly  thaw  it  thence — Ha !  did  he  call  ? 
"  That  voice  was  low  and  soft — Matilda  ! 
"  I  come — I  plunge — Oh!  clasp  me  once  again." 
She  fell — and  quivering  anguish  closed  her 


41  POEMS. 

Eyes  in  death oh  !  madness  ! 

To  what  pale  demon  shall  I  liken  thee  ? 
Thou  art  sick  fancy's  ghost,  tired  Memory's 
Trouhled  dream;  monarch  of  wild  surmise, 
Who,  with  unequal  rule,  drags  trembling  horror 
From  the  breaking  heart,  and  chains  it  in  the 

Confines  of  the  brain. 

Near  yon  gray  ruin's  aisle  her  body  lies; 

But  Time  has  been  so  busy  with   the  spot, 

That  no  small  trace  remains,  whereby  the  mind 

In  pensive  mood,  might  contemplate  her  grave; 

For  all  is  desolation  round,  and  wears 

The  ruin'd  garb  of  many  3'ears  : — 

Ruin  !  potent  Lord,  to  whom  all  nature  bows, 

And  who  claims  tribute  from  the  firm-set  earth; 

When  shall  thy  havoc  cease  ?     Never — never, 

Till  thou  hast  dash'd  the  sun  forth  from  his  sphere, 

And  from  its  axle  hearv'd  the  ponderous  globe, 

Down  to  the  depth  where  haggard  Chaos  reigns  : 

Then  Death  shall  stalk  amidst  the  jarring  wreck, 

And  gloomy  Echo,  with  appalling  shriek, 

Make  mockery  at  the  mighty  end  of  Time, 

And  revel  o'er  the  fragments  of  a  world. 


POEMS.  45 

This  Poem  was  suggested  by  the  Author's  having  seen  a 
maniac  in  the  yard  of  the. Pennsylvania  Hospital.  He  was 
sitting  on  the  ground  and  drawing  lines  with  a  shrub.  He 
had  been  engaged  to  a  lady,  who  was  shortly  afterwards  con 
sumed  by  fire,  in  consequence  of  which  his  reason  deserted 
him. 

To  PROFESSOR  DAVID  HOSACK, 

PHYSICIAN  OF  THE  LUNATIC  ASYLUM  OF  NEW-YORK; 

This  Poem  is  Dedicated,  being  an  humble  offering  to  his  genius 
and  acquirements. 

THE  MANIAC'S  DREAM. 


-oh !  madness ! 


To  what  pale  demon  shall  I  liken  thee? 
Thcu  art  sick  Fancy's  ghost,  tired  Memory's 
Troubled  dream ;    Monarch  of  wild  surmise, 
Who,  with  unequal  rule,  drags  trembling  horror 
From  the  breaking  heart,  and  chains  it  in  the 
Confines  of  the  brain." 

FARMER. 


A  PILGRIM,  sad,  friendless,  obscure,  and  alone, 
Stood  gazing  on  Schuylkill's  bright  wave, 

When,  soon  he  beheld  a  pale  sepulchre  stone, 
And  a  Maniac  stretched  on  a  grave. 


46  POEMS. 

His  bosom  was  bare,  and  his  aspect  was  dire, 
And  his  hair  with  dead  lichens  was  bound; 

He  started,  and  snatching  a  neighbouring  briar, 
Stoop'd  down,  and  drew  lines  on  the  ground. 

But  the  lines  that  he  drew  were  erased  by  the  wind, 

And  he  smote  on  his  bosom  so  bare; 
Ah  !  what  can  erase  from  the  desolate  mind, 

The  lines  that  are  traced  by  despair. 

Draw  near,  and  I'll  answer,  he  said  with  a  sigh, 

Thy  question  was  tender  and  meek; 
'Twas  ask'd  by  a  gentle  and  pitying  eye, 

'Twas  writ  on  a  weather-worn  cheek. 

Such  language  I  love,  it  communes  with  the  breast, 

Such  language  to  sorrow  is  given; 
'Tis  well  by  the  brow,  and  by  silence,  express'd, 

And  'tis  used  by  the  angels  in  heaven. 

Be  calm  ye  that  revel,  nor  smile  ye  that  hope 
For  the  sunbeams  of  bliss  on  the  morrow; 

The  path  that  ye  trace  is  a  desolate  slope, 
And  descends  to  the  confines  of  sorrow. 


POEMS.  47 

For  joy,  like  a  beam  of  the  evening  hour, 

Is  lost  in  the  darkness  around  it, 
And  hope,  like  the  distant  Cimmerian  flower, 

Is  hid — for  what  wretch  ever  found  it. 

And  peace  and  contentment  are  shadowy  forms, 

That  smile  upon  fortune  a  day; 
But,  where  thought  stalks  abroad  amid  gathering  storms, 

They  flit  like  a  vision  away. 

And  all  that  we  feel,  or  behold,  or  desire, 

All  things  that  are  true,  or  that  seem; 
All  glories  that  mount,  are  eclipsed,  and  retire; 

They  are  merely — a  Maniac's  dream. 

If  one  angel  form  should  be  dear  to  your  soul, 

By  fortune's  reverses  unshaken; 
Distrust — for  you  taste  not  joy's  flattering  bowl — 

'Tis  a  dream — still  distrust,  till  you  waken  : 

Nay  seek  not — for  mine  is  no  gathering  flame 

For  the  mob  of  the  world  to  discover; 
Oh!  he  that  makes  current  a  love-cherished  nime, 

Deserves  not  the  name  of  a  lover. 


48  POEMS. 

When  the  rain  falls  at  night,  and  the  wind  whistles  by 
I  have  heard  a  sweet  voice  gently  calling, 

And  I've  seen  a  pale  cheek,  and  a  glimmering  eye, 
That  look'd  dim,  like  a  star  when  it's  falling. 

List — list  to  my  tale,  though  the  sky  is  o'ercast, 

Still  memory  traces  a  lingering  beam; 
Like  a  comet  it  speeds,  and  gives  light  to  the  past, 

To  illustrate a  Maniac's  dream. 

As  pensive,  musing,  I  reclin'd, 

Near  Schuylkill's  fragrant  side, 
Sleep  stole  delusive  o'er  my  mind, 

Like  shadows  o'er  the  tide; 
How  sweetly  then  Aurora  smil'd 

Within  her  Eastern  bower, 
And  Fancy  o'er  my  bosom,  wild 

Made  every  weed  a  flower. 
The  sand  seem'd  gold,  the  clouds  above 

Look'd  fair,  like  angels  dreaming; 
The  dew-drops  of  the  vernal  grove 

Seem'd  sapphires  brightly  gleaming : 
Yes,  flowers  were  sweet,  and  clouds  were  light, 

And  fair  the  spangled  blossom  : 


POEMS.  49 

But  sweeter  far  the  lovely  sprite 

That  lean'd  upon  my  bosom. 
She  press'd  my  hand — her  grasp  was  cold — 

Farewell,  farewell,  she  sigh'd, 
But  e'er  she  fled,  shriek'd  out — "  behold  ! 

"  Behold  thy  destin'd  bride  !" 
A  sybil  with  dishevell'd  hair 

Stood  gazing  on  a  briar; 
Her  brow  was  deeply  mark'd  with  care, 

Unstrung  her  shatter'd  lyre  : 
She  held  a  taper  in  her  hand, 

The  light  was  backward  cast; 
It  beam'd  upon  no  other  strand 

But  that  already  past. 
The  blossoms  that  compos'd  her  wreath 

Hung  faded  round  her  head  ; 
She  glean'd  them  from  a  desert  heath — 

They  grew  above  the  dead. 
"  Welcome,"  she  cried — "  we  must  not  part 

"  Till  death  our  hands  shall  sever; 
<!  I  hold  my  empire  o'er  thy  heart, 

"  And  thou  art  mine  forever. 
"  My  kinsman  is  a  wizard,  dread, 

"  By  wakefulness  distress'd; 


50  POEMS. 

"  He  never  rests  his  weary  head 

"  Except  on  Fancy's  breast. 
"  His  name  to  joy  is  seldom  known, 

"  His  power  is  dearly  bought; 
"  He  seeks  the  mountain  cave  alone, 

"  And  mortals  call  him  Thought. 
"  He  leaves  unclosed  his  cavern  door, 

"  But  I  still  near  it  stray; 
"  Or  Time  would  soon  despoil  his  store, 

"  And  steal  his  scroll  away. 
"  Come,  wedded  lord,  the  cave  is  near, 

"  Within  its  haunts  we'll  rove; 
"  I'll  show  you  pale  Revenge's  bier; 

"  I'll  show  you — one  you  love." 
Then  swiftly  changing,  spectres  past, 

Whenlo  !  an  angel  came; 
Her  robe  was  shatter'd  by  the  blast, 

And  wrapt  in  livid  flame. 
My  bosom  by  her  hand  was  press'd, 

Its  living  impulse  fled; 
And  forms  that  rul'd  my  aching  breast 

Seem'd  mounting  to  my  head. 
"  Farewell ! — within  this  cavern  drear, 

"  With  Memory  for  thy  bride, 


POEMS.  Dl 

"  Near  Thought's  pale  star,  and  Fancy's  sphere, 

"  Be  ever  blest,"  she  cried. — 
"  For  though  the  earth  may  fade  away, 

"  These  lights  shall  never  leave  thee; 
"  And  when  you  seek  my  couch  of  clay, 

'?  They  never  will  deceive  thee." 
Convuls'd  I  rear'd  my  aching  head, 

But  saw  no  torches  gleam; 
The  airy  forms  of  anguish  fled, 

'Twas  but a  Maniac's  Dream ! 

But  soon  Reality  appear'd, 

The  shadowy  screen  withdrew — 
Then,  then  my  wounded  brain  was  sear'd, 

For  mark! 1  found  it  true  ! 

The  night-demon  shook  her  dark  plumes  o'er  the  wold, 
And  conven'd  her  assembly  of  images  dire; 

Dull  silence  prevail'd  till  the  'larum  bell  toll'd, 
When  the  heavens  were  lighted  with  volumes  of  fire. 

Fly,  fly  to  her  rescue — hence,  maddening  pain; 

She  rises  above  on  the  wings  of  the  blast; 
She  descends,  and  her  arms  now  encircle  my  brain — 

I  clasp  her — she  smiles— for  the  havoc  is  pass'd. 


52  POEMS. 

"Tis  false — I  still  see  the  fell  monarch  of  fire, 
With  a  flame  on  his  helm  and  an  orb  on  his  crest; 

He  escapes ! — and  his  glittering  torches  expire 

As  I  grasp  them  convuls'd  to  my  shuddering  breast. 

Though  wounded  and  fallen,  like  a  warrior  proud, 
I  offer  thee  nought  but  contempt  and  disdain; 

I  dare  thee  again  from  thy  dim  thunder  cloud, 
Tho'  thy  lightning  now  pierces  my  brain  : 

I  smile  at  thy  efforts,  I  scorn  all  thy  power, 

I  seek  not  the  deep  swelling  wave, 
Nor  the  mist,  nor  the  dew,  nor  the  chill  winter  shower, 

I'll  cool  it  with  mould  from  her  grave. 

Soft — soft,  I  recover,  oh  !  loveliest  sprite, 

Still,  still  art  thou  near  to  relieve  me; 
No  giant,  by  morn,  or  by  noon,  or  by  night, 

Of  this  mould  has  the  power  to  bereave  me. 

Farewell — but  I'll  whisper  this  truth  in  thine  ear, 

The  world  is  a  desolate  cave; 
Its  smile  is  a  phantom,  its  radiance  a  tear, 

And  its  coueh  of  repose  is  a  grave. 


POEMS.  ,03 

For  all  that  we  feel,  or  behold,  or  desire, 

All  things  that  are  true  or  that  seem, 
All  glories  that  mount,  are  eclips'd,  and  retire; 

They  are  merely  a  Maniac's  dream. 


54  POEMS. 


ON  THE  SEPARATION  OF  LORD  AND  LADY  BYRON. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

THE  meteor-blaze  that  fires  the  sky, 
Is  only  sent  to  flash  and  die: 
The  scene  that  cheers  the  joyous  heart, 
Bears  on  its  front,  the  words,  "  We  part !" 
And  all  our  passing  blessings  seem 
The  shadow  of  some  empty  dream, 
That  meets  the  fancy  and  retires, 
That  kindles,  and  alas  !  expires. 

Oh  !  who  would  seek  the  various  bowers 
Where  Genius  spends  the  listless  hours  ? 
Where  momentary  brilliance  gleams, 
And  passion  deals  in  curst  extremes; 
Where  joy  delusive  beams  around, 
Where  wilder'd  ecstasy  is  found; 
Where  madness  often  dwells;  and  where 
The  shroud  is  wove  for  fix'd  despair  ? 


POEMS.  55 

Within  those  bow'rs  there's  little  rest, 
Beneath  those  shades  how  few  are  blest ! 
An  Eastern  bride  was  not  more  fair 
Than  she  who  met  Lord  BYRON  there  : 
The  freshest  vines  around  were  spread, 
And  roses  strew'd  their  bridal  bed, 
And  Hope  appear'd  in  visions  bright, 
And  Care  was  hidden  from  their  sight. 
Old  Science  came,  with  locks  of  gray, 
To  bless  his  daughter's  wedding  day; 
And  Fancy,  as  the  spot  she  pass'd, 
Whisper'd,  "  This  scene  of  joy  shall  last, 
And  floods  of  classic  light  shall  roll, 
From  mind  to  mind,  from  soul  to  soul." 
#*•****#**#* 
I  said  the  passing  hour  seem'd  blest, 
That  flowers  o'erspread  the  couch  of  rest : 
They  now  lie  wither'd,  sad,  and  dead, 
Hope  soon  withdrew,  and  Pleasure  fled; 
When,  in  a  voice  like  funeral  knell, 
Lord  BYRON  bid  his  bride  "  Farewell;" 
Fled  from  that  peaceful  couch  of  rest, 
And  sought  the  troubled  ocean's  breast. 


56  POEMS. 

Behold  that  cheek,  that  brow  of  care, 
The  firm  grasp'd  hand,  the  bosom  bare; 
What  agony  is  there  exprest, 
Can  BYRON  on  the  cold  earth  rest  ? 


"  Stay,  sweet  illusion,  stay;  once  more 
"  That  form,  that  voice,  that  look  restore. 
"  Methought,  upon  a  tower  I  stood, 
"  Which  overhung  the  raging  flood; 
"  When,  as  I  view'd  the  restless  swell, 
"  With  sullen  joy, — down — down  I  fell; 
"  But  e'er  I  reach'd  the  midway  air, 
"  An  angel,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
"  And  heaving  bosom,  held  me  fast; 
"  Upon  her  brow  one  glance  I  cast, 
"  Oh  !  'twas  serene — it  struck  my  heart ! 
"  She  said,  '  forever  we  must  part.' — 
"  From  my  cold  grasp  she  strove  to  sever, 
"  And  said,  '  forget  me — Oh!  forever.' 
"  Stay,  sweet  illusion — stay, — once  more 
"  That  form,  that  look,  that  voice  restore; 
"  She's  gone — I  saw  her  bosom  swell 
"  With  inward  grief — '  fare-well, farewell!' 


POEMS.  57 

"  This  aching  heart  will  never  let  me 
"  Obey  her  mandate,  '  Oh  !  forget  me.'* 
He  smote  his  breast,  his  eyes  gleam'd  wild-**- 
"  Nor  can  I  e'er  forget  **  *****." 

'Tis  midnight;  still  yon  mourner  sighs, 

Sleep  has  not  clos'd  her  lovely  eyes; 

Her  child,  how  often  has  she  prest 

Upon  her  solitary  breast; 

Her  hair  fell  gently  o'er  that  child, 

The  mother's  scream  was  loud  and  wild; 

For  shaded  by  those  ringlets  fair, 

She  caught  the  father's  likeness  there  : 

"  My  love, — my  lord," — her  tears  she  dried, 

And  strove  the  breaking  heart  to  hide; 

But  what  aloud  she  dare  not  speak, 

Is  writ  upon  her  brow,  and  cheek, 

And  in  her  babe's  unconscious  ears 

A  name  is  whisper'd  oft  in  tears. 


*  '  Oh .'  forget  me,' — a  poem,  said  to  be  written  by  Lady  Byron  after 
her  separation. 


58  POEMS. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 


THOMAS  R.  SHEPHERD,  Esq. 


A  POET 


OF  CHARLESTON,  SOUTH-CAROLINA. 


"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

"  Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

"  Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

"  Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 

"  Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

"  Like  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust." 

SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  moon  in  silver  tiara  drest, 
Lean'd  'gainst  a  darkened  cloud  to  rest; 
A  shadowy  mist  of  paly  red 
Around  her  pensive  brow  was  spread, 


POEMS. 

And  cast  a  beam  upon  the  sky, 
Like  glance  from  poet's  raptur'd  eye; 
No  noise  disturb'd  the  passing  hour, 
The  dew  fell  gently  from  the  flower, 
The  zephyr-sprite  had  left  the  lea, 
No  wave  disturb'd  the  glassy  sea, 
And  man  sleep's  drowsy  pillow  prest, 
And  weary  nature  seem'd  to  rest. 

A  female  form  stole  o'er  the  ground. 
And  stopp'd  beside  yon  earthy  mound; 
An  eye  so  bright,  a  cheek  so  fair, 
Should  never  court  the  midnight  air : — 
A  wreath  of  withered  flowers  was  spread 
Around  her  melancholy  head; 
Loose  on  her  arm  the  lyre  was  swung, 
Aside  her  flowing  hair  she  swung, 
And  thus  the  plaintive  descant  rung  : 

On  Ora's  steep  a  flowret  grew, 
Its  early  hues  were  bright; 
It  glisten'd  in  the  morning  dew, 
But  wither'd  e'er  the  night. 

Oh  !  minstrel  thus,  thy  morning  hour 
By  Genius  fair  was  crown'd; 


(}0  POEMS. 

She  call'd  thee  to  her  freshest  bower, 
And  there  thy  temples  bound  : 

But  ah !  before  the  evening  fled, 
That  pensive  maiden  sigh'd ! 

The  chaplet  fell  from  off  thy  head, 
And  all  its  roses  died. 

Tho'  others  pass  unheeding  by 
Thy  lone  sequester'd  bier; 

Tho'  others  heave  no  kindred  sigh, 
And  drop  no  pitying  tear  : 

Still  will  I  seek  that  lonely  wold, 
And  dress  with  flowers  thy  head, 

And  scatter  cypress  o'er  the  mould, 
And  mourn  the  minstrel  dead. 

On  Ora's  steep  a  flowret  grew, 
Its  early  hues  were  bright; 

It  glisten'd  in  the  morning  dew, 
But  wither'd  e'er  the  night. 

She  ceas'd,  and  threw  from  off  her  hair 
The  drooping  flowers  that  wither'd  there; 


POEMS.  61 


That  pensive  lady  seem'd  inclin'd 
To  leave  her  magic  lyre  behind. 
The  moon  now  hid  behind  a  cloud, 
Like  pallid  maiden  'neath  a  shroud, 
And  darkness  stalked  from  pole  to  pole, 
Like  madness  o'er  the  wretch's  soul. 

In  lovely  brightness  once  again, 
The  moon  look'd  down  upon  the  plain; 
Her  quick  glance  o'er  the  dew  appears, 
Like  sudden  joy  when  steep'd  in  tears; 
Then — no  one  stood  beside  the  dead, 
The  gentle  maid  of  Heaven  had  fled; 
But  loosely  scatter'd  o'er  the  ground, 
The  broken  silver  strings  were  found. 


62  POEMS. 


SONNET  TO  SORROW. 

SAY,  gentle  Sorrow,  tenant  lone  of  night. 

Where  is  thy  mystic  solitary  bower  ? 
Does  Genius,  there,  display  her  beaming  light, 

And  art  thou  govern'd  by  her  fairy  power  ? — 
The  vulgar  soul  his  joy  alone  explores, 

Where  riot  runs  her  clam'rous,  noisy  dance, 
Or  where  supine  eternal  Dulness  snores, 

With  senses  bound  in  dark  Oblivion's  trance : 
But  fair  refinement  to  thy  power  is  given, 

For  thee  hath  youthful  Genius  struck  the  lyre; 
Thou  art  the  daughter  pure  of  poet's  heaven, 

That  first  essay'd  bright  fancy  to  inspire; 
Yes,  Sorrow!  in  thy  bower  of  drooping  vines, 

The  star  of  fancy  gleams  and  genius  shines. 


POEMS.  63 


ON  A  JESSAMINE, 


THAT  BLOOMED  TOO  EARLY,  AMD  WAS  KILLED    UT  THE 
FROST. 


THOSE  early  blossoms,  lovely  flower, 

The  morning  sunbeams  blest, 
But  now  they  droop  in  winter's  bower, 

And  wither  on  her  breast. 
So,  early  hope  is  nurs'd  by  care, 

So,  sorrow  withering  lies, 
So,  stripp'd  of  every  blossom  fair, 

The  spring  of  fancy  dies. 
The  parent  vine  no  shelter  gave 

To  screen  thee  from  the  blast; 
But  now  it  bends  upon  thy  grave, 

And  honours  thee  at  last. 
Such  too  is  merit's  hapless  fate, 

That  living,  finds  no  friend, 
Till  pilgrims  seek  the  spot  too  late, 

And  o'er  the  relics  bend. 


64  POEMS. 

Oh !  joy  is  but  a  tinsel  gem, 
That  sparkles  for  an  hour, 

And  life  is  but  a  rifled  stem, 
And  hope, — its  frosted  flower. 


POEMS.  65 


ON  A  BLUEBELL, 

WHICH   WAS  IN  BLOOM  AFTER   A  STORMY  NIGHT,   BUT  FADED 
IN  THE  SUNBEAM  BEFORE   NOON. 


How  wildly  o'er  the  chilly  night 

The  tempest-demon  flew; 
Still  art  thou  free  from  stain  or  blight, 

The  storm  though  stern — was  true. 
But  shun  those  beams,  thou  fairy  flower, 

That  o'er  thy  beauties  stray; 
They  only  seek  thy  fragrant  bower, 

To  steal  thy  sweets  away. 
So,  over  beauty's  drooping  head 

The  fell  despoiler  sighs; 
She  looks — and  all  her  peace  is  fled, 

She  listens — and  she  dies. 


66  POEMS. 


LINES, 


0\  THE   MOON  SHINING  THROUGH  A  WINDOW,  UPON 
MY  BED. 


How  softly  blew  the  evening  wind, 

How  gently  heav'd  the  billow, 
When,  on  my  pensive  couch  reclin'd, 

A  light  shone  o'er  my  pillow  : 
Then  silence  rul'd  the  weary  hour, 

No  pageant  cloud  was  flying; 
The  moon,  within  her  starlight  bower, 

Look'd  pale,  like  beauty  dying. 
I  started  from  my  couch  of  night, 

Tho'  nothing  dread  was  near  me, 
And  wonder'd  that  a  friendly  light 

Was  ever  sent  to  cheer  me. 

I  should  have  slept,  had  angry  storms 
Urg'd  their  dread  fury  past; 

I  should  have  slept,  had  fearful  forms 
Their  spells  about  me  cast : 


POEMS.  67 


I  should  have  slept — if  fortune  bleak 

Had  frovvn'd  upon  my  bed; 
But  ah !  it  was  a  stranger  meek 

That  gently  touch'd  my  head  : 
For  he  who  feels  the  wint'ry  storm — 

The  sun's  refulgent  glow — 
Must  still  call  that  a  stranger-form, 

Which  cheers  his  brow  of  wo. 
Some  start  at  terror's  maddening  host, 

And  some  at  pale  distress; 
But  wounded  bosoms  shudder  most 

At  things  that  come  to  bless  ! 
'Tis  past — e'en  now  thy  mantle  lay, 

Like  diamonds  o'er  the  lea, 
'Twas  then  as  bright  as  fortune's  day, 

'Tis  now,  obscure  like  me. 


POEMS. 


LINES, 

UPON  SEEING    A.N  INFANT  ASLEEP  IN  ITS  MOTHER'S  ARMS. 


SLEEP  on,  no  cares  thy  couch  molest, 

No  terrors  yet  alarm; 
Now,  little  stranger,  thou  art  blest, 
Thine  empire,  is  a  mother's  breast, 

Thy  shield — a  father's  arm. 
The  early  rosebud  hid  in  leaves, 

That  form  for  it  a  fragrant  bower, 
In  stormy  nights  no  ill  receives, 

But  wo  awaits  the  full-blown  flower. 
Sleep  on — no  worldly  blight  is  near, 
Sleep  on.  secure  from  danger; 
I  whisper  to  thee  with  a  tear, 
Thou  knowest  all  the  bliss  that's  here, 

To  wo  alone  a  stranger. 
May  He  that  shelters  the  distrest, 

Secure  thy  soul  from  guile; 
And  may'st  thou  ever  sleep  to  rest, 
And  ever  wake  to  smile. 


POEMS.  69 


ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  MR.  HODGKINSON, 

FORMERLY  ACTING  MANAGER  OF  THE  CHARLESTON 
THEATRE. 

MOURN  thou,  Melpomene  !  and  o'er  my  verse 
Strew  drooping  flow'rets  to  bedeck  his  hearse  : 
Thy  son  is  gone,  and  with  him  all  the  power 
To  smooth  rough  care,  or  chase  the  lingering  hour. 
To  him  were  given,  throughout  the  various  part, 
The  fires  of  genius,  with  the  stars  of  art; 
A  voice,  that  music  from  her  slumbers  woke, 
A  brow  that  governed,  and  an  eye  that  spoke. 
He  gain'd  in  tragedy  the  first  applause; 
That  wondering  silence,  which  perfection  draws; 
And  when  in  comedy,  the  mask  he  wore, 
Gray  age  and  wisdom  joined  the  general  roar. 
H 

At  his  last  scene,  no  soothing  friend  was  nigh 
To  whisper  peace,  or  close  his  death-veil'd  eye  : 


70  POEMS. 

Nor  were,  alas  !  his  orphan  children  near. 
To  ask  his  blessing,  and  return  a  tear. 
The  curtain's  down — the  restless  drama  o'er, 
His  exit's  made — never  to  enter  more. 


POEMS.  71 


THE  MAID  OF  LODI. 

WHERE  yon  lorn  drooping  willows 

Their  branches  waive  around, 
The  hapless  Maid  of  Lodi 
A  last  retreat  has  found. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  like  morning, 

Or  sparkling  gems  of  blue; 
Like  magic  were  her  dimples; 
Her  teeth,  the  snow-drops  hue. 

Her  eyes  are  now  like  evening, 

When  gloomy  night  is  nigh; 
Her  lips,  ambrosial  roses, 

Were  doom'd  to  blush  and  die. 
Ah,  hapless  Maid  of  Lodi ! 

'Tis  very  hard  to  prove 
fhe  pangs  that  rend  the  bosom 

Of  one  who  dies  for  love. 


72  POEMS. 

i  m 

Ye  maidens  in  the  morning, 

When  bending  flow'rets  waive, 
Strew  Spring's  ambrosial  roses 

Upon  her  lonely  grave. 
The  dew  within  the  cowslip 

Its  glittering  tears  will  shed, 
And  weep,  oh  Maid  of  Lodi ! 

O'er  thy  once  lovely  head. 


POEMS.  73 


SONNET  TO  GENIUS. 

WHERE,  lovely  maid,  is  thy  delusive  cell  ? 

Where  is  thy  drooping  amaranthine  bower  ? 

Does  pallid  sorrow  in  thy  confines  dwell, 

Or  lone  despair  obey  thy  magic  power  ? 

Say,  is  there  rest  within  thy  sacred  pale, 

Where  memory,  tired,  his  weighty  record  keeps  ? 

Where  Fancy's  busy  summoners  prevail, 

And  load  with  care  the  silent  couch  of  sleep. — 

Come  OGILVIE,*  display  thy  dazzling  wand, 

Point  out  her  haunts,  explain  her  mystic  ways; 

For  thou  hast  wander'd  o'er  her  diamond  strand, 

And  round  thy  temples  worn  her  freshest  bays : 

Great  NEWTON'S  mind  trac'd  the  bright  stars  of  heaven 

To  trace  bright  Genius,  to  thy  mind  was  given. 

*  The  celebrated  orator. 


74  POEMS. 


THIS  POEM  is  ADDRESSED  TO  PROFESSOR  FRA.NCIS,  OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NEW-YORK,  WITH  THE  AFFECTION 
ATE  REGARD  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

Written  at  the  Cave  near  Newport,  Rhode-Island. 
TO  NATURE. 

"There  is  a  twilight  in  the  soul, 
That  knows  nor  joy's  nor  wo's  control, 

When  passion  sleeps,  and  thought  is  weary, 

And  scenes  are  neither  bright  nov  dreary  ; 
Alas!  she  quickly  ends  her  tranquil  reign, 
And  yields  her  power  to  night,  and  wo  again. 

FARMER. 


HAIL  !  lovely  stranger,  clad  in  vernal  flowers, 

Nymph  of  the  cavern  wild  and  mountain  hoar; 
The  times  have  past  since  I  beheld  thy  bowers, 
When  listless  childhood  spent  the  fleeting  hours,  [shore. 
Where  Schuylkill's  glassy  wave  reflects  the  woodland 


POEMS.  75 

Thro'  youthful  memory's  faintly  shaded  screen, . 

They  still  appear'd  as  lovely  as  before  : 
For  flowers  tho'  dead,  and  sloping  hills  not  green, 
Are  cloth'd  in  verdure  when  at  distance  seen, 

And  Fancy  lights  her  lamp  at  Memory's  waning  store : 

Then,  Nature,  I  beheld  thee  in  a  dream! 

The  briar-rose  clamber'd  o'er  thy  rocky  throne, 
And  clustering  bent  above  a  murmuring  stream : 
So  childhood  bends  attentive  to  the  theme 
Of  haunted  cell,  where  dismal  torches  gleam, 

Or  wizards  dance,  or  dead  men  dwell  alone. 

This  rifted  fragment  o'er  the  deep 

In  awful  grandeur  lowers; 
Within  yon  cavern  fairies  sleep 

On  Ocean's  sparkling  flowers. 
There,  Mystery,  in  dripping  shroud, 

Waives  her  dull  sceptre  round — 
The  bolt  that  bursts  the  thunder  cloud 

Rends  not  her  cell  profound. 

Around  that  cell  a  feeble  ray 
Is  sometimes  seen  to  beam; 


76  POEMS. 

It  leads  the  pilgrim  from  his  way, 
O'er  fen,  and  moor,  and  stream. 

So  Hope,  thy  little  taper  shines, 
Unquench'd  by  winter's  blast: 

So  he  that  follows  soon  repines, 
For  he's  deceived  at  last. 


POEMS.  77 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CAPTAIN  E.  COFFIN. 

"  And  grateful  title  may  I  plead 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed, 
To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave  ; 
'Tis  little— but  'tis  all  I  have." 

SCOTT. 


ONCE  more  I  seek  thee,  oh !  thou  wilder'd  lyre, 

Once  more  I  take  thee  from  the  yew-tree's  shade, 
Once  more  I  tune  thy  damp,  thy  mouldering  wire, 

And  touch  thy  strings,  all  broken  and  decay'd : 
Stern  Darkness  gathers  round  the  woodland  bower, 

And  every  star  and  evening  beam  has  fled — 
The  rain-drop  presses  down  each  slender  flower; 

So'  worldly  minions  press  the  aching  head. 
The  oak  lies  prostrate  :  may  the  surly  blast 

Spare  the  young  buds  that  shelter'd  there  ere-while, 
The  deadly  bolt  has  spent  its  force  and  past; 

Oh  tempests,  cease  to  lower — oh  Nature,  wear  a  smile  f 
7* 


78  POEMS. 

I  did  not,  Coffin,  bathe  thy  head, 

Or  know  thy  parting  hour  : 
But  I  will  strew  thy  lonely  bed 

With  many  a  fairy  flower  : 
And  they  shall  blossom  o'er  thy  bier — 

The  dew-queen  need  not  dress  them; 
Their  dew-drop  is  a  widow's  tear, 

And  bending  orphans  bless  them. 
Misfortune,  on  the  cold  damp  ground 

Hath  sought  thy  aid  and  found  it; 
And  where  thou  could'st  not  heal  the  wound, 

Thy  pity  gently  bound  it. 
Farewell!  one  moment  let  me  bend 

To  deck  thy  hallo w'd  clay; 
These  fragrant  buds,  like  thee,  my  friend, 

Must  quickly  fade  away. 
But  now  they  blossom  on  thy  bier, 

The  dew-queen  need  not  dress  them; 
Their  dew-drop  is  a  widow's  tear, 

And  bending  orphans  bless  them. 


POEMS. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  DAVID  RAMSAY, 

THE  LATE  CELEBRATED  HISTORIOGRAPHER. 

YE,  who  have  sought,  amidst  ambrosial  bowers, 
For  fairy  genius  drest  in  April  flowers, 
And  ye,  who  seek  for  wisdom's  hallow'd  cave, 
Here  stay  your  steps,  and  view  this  lonely  grave. 
Here  on  this  spot,  tho'  damp,  and  low.  and  dread, 
Here  genius  bows  the  venerable  head; 
The  bays  are  wither'd — they  shall  bloom  no  more, 
On  earth's  unhospitable,  wiutery  shore; 
Where  every  weed  in  glowing  health  is  found, 
Whilst  flowers  of  promise  wither  on  the  ground. 
Come,  view  this  grave — here,  mortal,  shalt  thou  find 
The  wreck  of  more  than  matter — wreck  of  mind, 
And  wreck  of  wisdom  too,  that  second  sight, 
Which  places  science  in  her  loveliest  light; 
That  great  magician,  who  from  fancy's  store 
Parts  the  resplendent  diamond  from  the  ore  : 
This  heaven  has  clone — here  Ramsay's  body  lies, 
His  genius  soars  amidst  the  starry  skies. 


80  POEMS. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  ISLE. 

PART  j. — THE  ISLE;  A  COMICO-TRAGICAL  TALE. — Dedicated 
to  the  Officers  of  the  United  Statee  Army. 

ON  the  verge  of  the  deep,  where  the  dark  sea-bird  hovers, 
Where  the  wave,  in  loud  fury,  bursts  wild  on  the  shore; 
Near  the  light-house,  whose  flame  to  the  wand'rer  discovers 
A  beam,  like  the  glance  of  those  long  sever'd  lovers, 
Who  meet  in  blest  rapture,  to  sever  no  more; 
An  Isle  of  white  sand,  like  a  desert  is  seen, 
Where  no  wild  flower  blushes  in  meadow  of  green; 
But,  where  long  tangled  sea-weed  is  cast  on  the  strand, 
Like  the  gray  locks  of  age,  pluck'd  by  merciless  hand; 
For  the  storm  tore  it  up  from  its  deep  oosy  bed, 
As  the  ruffian  tears  locks  from  the  wanderer's  head  : 
Oh!  ye,  who  would  view  "  this  famed  desert"  aright, 
Go  visit  the  strand  by  the  "pale  starry  light;1' 
When  the  bleak  wind  is  high,  and  the  breakers  are  gleam- 
And  the  owl  is  abroad,  and  the  sea-gull  isscreaming;   [ing. 
Then,  sit  near  yon  circummured  castle  awhile, 
And  behold  the  fell  grandeur  of  Sullivan's  Isle. 


POEMS.  81 

The  moonbeam  just  gleams  on- yon  ruin  so  bare, 

One  moment  the  moonbeam  has  fled; 

Like  the  quick  frantic  smile  on  the  face  of  Despair, 

When  she  bends  o'er  the  couch  of  the  dead. 

Oft  to  visit  this  spot  a  blest  seraph  is  seen, 

With  an  eye  ever  bright,  and  a  robe  ever  green, 

And  a  cheek,  where  the  red  rose  forever  must  bloom, 

And  she  covers  with  daisies  the  path  to  the  tomb  : 

The  youth  that  she  smiles  on  is  certainly  blest, 

He  has  strength  for  the  chase,  and  fair  visions  for  rest ; 

I  have  wip'd  the  big  drops  from  a  brow  cold  as  stone, 

But  I've  seldom  seen  Health  on  her  diamond  throne. 

Far  famed  was  the  castle^now  lost  in  decay, 
That  frown'd  o'er  the  high  surging  sea  ; 
Tho'  pale  is  the  bloodstain,  and  long  past  the  day, 
Still,  who  has  not  heard  of  that  noble  affray, 
And  its  banner,  the  green  island  tree  ? 


PART    II. — THE    NIGHT. 

In  bugle  bed-gown  frown'd  the  night, 
Like  angry  witch  with  baneful  spite: 
She  scarce  allow'd  the  stars  to  light 
The  sandy  hills  around. 


82  POEMS. 

The  moon,  'tis  thought,  was  fast  asleep, 
In  distant  cavern  dark  and  deep, 
Where  silence  doth  her  vigils  keep, 

In  mystery  profound. 
The  stricken  drum  announc'd  the  hour. 
The  sentry  pac'd  'round  fosse  and  tower, 
And  fearing  much  a  drenching  shower, 

Around  his  watch-coat  drew : 
A  sudden  sorrow  fill'd  his  mind, 
His  memory,  with  hint  unkind, 
Spoke  of  past  times,  and  he  repin'd 

His  coat  was  now  not  new. 
Ah  !  little  did  that  watchman  dream 
Of  battle  field  e'er  morning  beam, 
Of  noisy  shout,  and  piercing  scream, 

From  virgin  beauty  fair; 
Or  he  had  bow'd  his  lofty  crest, 
And  wip'd  his  eyes,  and  smote  his  breast, 
And  'gainst  his  brow  steel  gauntlet  prest, 

In  token  of  despair. 
Now  arm  in  arm,  or  hand  in  hand, 
Two  knights  pass'd  slowly  o'er  the  strand, 
Unarm'd  with  battle-axe  or  brand, 

Or  faulchion  broad,  or  spear  : 


POEMS.  83 

Anon  they  stopp'd  before  the  tower, 
Where  fair  Floressa*  slept  in  bower, 
Far  from  enchanter's  baneful  power, 

Or  haggard  wizard  drear. 
"  I  know  this  beauteous  virgin  rare, 
"•  And  by  yon  vaulted  arch  I  swear, 
"  A  foot  more  light,  a  face  more  fair, 

"  And  'sooth  an  eye  more  bright, 
"  On  earth  before  has  never  been, 
"  And  she  yclept  the  fairy  queen 
"  By  wilder'd  knight,  or  damsel  seen, 

"  Would  wither  in  her  sight. 
"  Let  poet  SPENCER  deftly  tell, 
"  Of  Britomart  and  Florimel, 
"  And  loudly  wild  his  numbers  swell, 

"  In  either  damsel's  praise  : 
"  Or  e'en  let  ARIOSTO  rear 
"  A  trophy  to  Marphisa's  spear, 
"  Or  TASSO  crown  his  virgin  dear 

"  With  never  fading  bays: 
"  For  these  must  bow  before  her  shrine, 
«'  And  e'en  the  Amazon  divine, 
"  Who  tasted  Alexander's  wine, 

"  And  Joan  of  Arc  beside." 

*  Floressa,  a  rich  widow  of  S.  C. 


84  POEMS. 

Thus  spoke  the  foremost  knight,  and  strode, 
In  silence,  o'er  the  sandy  road, 
That  led  toward  her  blest  abode; 
The  gate  flew  open  wide. 

PART  III. —  THE  VISIT. 

Slow  o'er  the  platform  pac'd  a  knight,* 
In  glittering  vest  and  armour  dight; 
High  on  his  helm,  like  passing  cloud, 
With  awful  nod,  a  horsetail  bow'd. 
'Twas  said  by  Douglas,  in  his  pride, 
"  Right  fairly"  doth  Lord  Marmion  ride  : 
To  give  this  mailed  chief  his  due, 
He  rode  as  well  and  fairly  too. 
The  steed  Bucephalus  of  yore, 
Triumphant  through  the  battle  bore 
Great  Philip's  son,  in  warlike  pride; 
'Tis  said,  when  that  fam'd  stallion  died, 
The  monarch  many  a  tear-drop  shed, 
And  built  a  city  o'er  his  head : 
Our  chief,  for  love  of  faithful  steed, 
Had  done  almost  as  good  a  deed; 
To  build  a  city,  though  not  able, 
He  built,  'twas  all  he  could— a  stable. 

*  The  hero  of  the  piece,  who  kept  livery  stables. 


POEMS. 

The  knights*  who  to  the  gateway  came, 
Call'd  on  Florissa's  honour'd  name, 
Saying,  within  that  lady's  bower, 
They  came  to  spend  a  short  half  hour. 
The  mailed  chieftains,  turning,  said, 
"  That  lady  bright  has  gone  to  bed:" 
The  knights  his  manly  port  admired, 
And  bowing — would  have  soon  retired; 
When  quick  they  heard  a  mighty  jar, 
A  tumult  wild,  a  din  of  war  : 
High  on  the  castle's  slanting  stair, 
Appear'd  the  form  of  female  fair; 
Wild  was  her  look  with  haggard  fright, 
Her  hair  was  loose,  her  dress  was  white  : 
Down — down  she  swept,  like  fell  Simoom, 
Left  all  her  armour  in  her  room, 
Toss'd  from  her  eyes  the  flowing  hair, 
Brandish'd  her  stalwart  arm  in  air; 
And  thus  'midst  thunders,  fire,  and  smoke, 
That  tender,  lovely,  virgin  spoke. 

*  Two  officers  belonging  to  the  United  States  anny. 


POEMS. 


ART  IV. — THE   UATTLE. 


•'  Hold!  thieves  and  murderers,  on  your  lives, 
"  Bring  pistols,  scissors,  carving  knives, 

"  And  shed  their  impious  gore:" 
She  caught  the  foremost  by  his  coat, 
Grasp'd  with  her  sinewy  hand  his  throat, 

To  dash  him  on  the  floor; 
"  A  knife,  a  knife,  fly  quickly,  fly, 
"  Attack  the  villains  or  I  die. — 
"  What,  pistols,  ho!  is  no  one  nigh  ? 

"  Quick,  minion,  on  thy  life; 
"  My  castle  for  a  gleaming  steel, 
"  To  make  those  damned  robbers  feel, 
"  The  deadly  blow  this  arm  can  deal; 

"  My  kingdom  for  a  knife  ! ! — 
"  Fire  quick" — a  flash  beam'd  ruddy  bright, 
A  bullet  took  its  erring  flight 

From  smoking  petronel. 
Death  now  appear'd  to  call  his  court, 
For  soon  as  if  in  playful  sport, 

A  seeming  victim  fell.* 

*  One  of  the  visiting  officers. 


POEMS. 

"  Off,  from  my  hall,  you  scoundrels  base, 
"  Let  no  one  longer  show  his  face, 
"  This  is  my  own  domain  and  place, 

"  Let  no  damn  d  slave  deride  it; 
"  Who  dares  among  you  all  to  frown  ? 
"  I  paid  in  yonder  distant  town, 
"  Each  farthing  of  the  money  down, 

"  The  very  hour  /  buy'd  it.* 
"  Down  with  the  huge  portcullis  straight, 
"  Go,  quick  as  lightning  shut  the  gate, 

"  The  lowly  villains  bind;" 
With  that,  she  gave  a  hearty  damn 
To  either  knight,  the  gate  goes  slam, 

And  one  remains  behind: 
Gleanrd  in  her  hand  the  pointed  knife, 
'Tis  aim'd  at  that  lone  captive's  life, 

With  many  a  deadly  thrust; 
The  servants  shudder  with  affright, 
For  never  was  a  mortal  wight 

So  handled,  and  so  curs'd. 
Against  such  gentleness,  such  charms, 
What  knight  could  wield  his  missile  arms  ? 
Sure  all  must  be  subdued  ! 

*  «« I  buy'd  it,"  the  motto  in  F '«  war  charist. 


88  POEMS. 

And  he  who  tarried  in  her  hold, 
And  saw  her  meek  demeanour  bold, 

In  cool  amazement  stood  ! ! — 
The  chieftain  with  the  waiving  crest 
Felt  some  compunction  in  his  breast, 

And  op'd  the  gate  again; 
From  whence  the  captive  soon  withdrew, 
And  oaths  like  hailstones  after  flew 

In  Eleusinian  strain.* 
Thus  ended,  without  blood  or  spoil, 
The  battle's  rage  and  loud  turmoil, 

And  imprecations  vile; 
From  hence  ye  warriors  all  beware, 
Still  ponder  on  that  lady  fair, 
And  ever  in  your  memories  bear, 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  ISLE. 

*  We  are  told  that,  during  the  celebration  of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries, 
the  Athenian  ladies  were  in  the  habit  of  rallying  each  other  from  opposite 
wagons,  in  the  same  refined  and  courtly  dialect  as  the  ladies  of  the  Eng 
lish  fish  market  are  wont  to  use  upon  certain  occasions 


POEMS. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ALTORF, 

SPOKEN     BT     MRS.     BARNES,    THEATRE    NEW-YORK,   IN    THE 
CHARACTER   OF 


WAK'D  by  the  grateful  tribute  of  applause, 
I  burst  my  bonds,  and  spurn'd  death's  icy  laws; 
Methinks  e'en  now,  I  see  Elysium  beam, 
But  soft,  ye  fair  —  and  I'll  unfold  my  dream. 
Old  SHAKSPEARE  led  me  to  ambrosial  bowers, 
And  DB.YDEN  crown'd  me  with  a  wreath  of  flowers; 
While  OTWAY  wept,   for  that  ?ad  pilgrim  knew 
The  bliss  of  genius,  and  her  curses  too  : 

How  soon,  alas  !  that  fleeting  bliss  expires, 
She  dreams  of  roses,  but  she  sleeps  on  briars: 
Convenes  in  pomp  a  magic  court  of  air, 
Then  starts  and  finds  her  wilder  d  bosom  bare; 
Nay  more,  when  ']orn,  and  weary,  arid  distrest, 
Suspense,  that  vampyre,  banquets  on  her  breast; 
While  sleepless  Envy  with  her  shuddering  brood, 

Relentless  dips  a  dagger  in  her  blood. 
8* 


90  POEMS. 

Ye,  who  award  to  sterling  worth  its  due, 
And  love  the  flow'ret  that  your  garden  grew, 
With  heart,  with  impulse,  and  with  fostering  hand, 
Greet  this  sweet  scion  of  your  native  land  : 
The  lovely  dew-queen  of  succeeding  years, 
Shall  bathe  its  future  buds  in  sparkling  tears; 
Unnumbered  leaves  its  cherish'd  blossoms  shed, 
To  deck  the  patriot's  grave — and  virgin's  bed. 


POEMS.  91 


TO  THE  ^OLIAN  HARP. 

THERE  is  a  harp  that  yields  a  'wilder'd  tone, 
Swept  by  the  gloomy  minstrel  of  the  wind, 
But  it  hath  power  to  sooth  the  hapless  mind, 
And  bards  have  listen'd  languid  and  alone, 
From  such  delusive  lay  to  frame,  alas!   their  own. 

Both  harp  and  bard  expos'd  to  wind  and  weather, 
May,  with  some  truth,  be  said  to  thrive  together, 
For  being  hous'd  and  foster'd,  then  ere  long      [song. 
The  harp  is  heard  no  more — no  more  the  minstrel's 


92  POEMS. 


ON  MIND. 

THERE  is  a  lone  ungovern'd  hour, 
When  mind  foregoes  her  ruling  power, 
And,  like  some  luckless  foundering  bark,  is  cast 
On  unknown  strands,  without  or  sail  or  mast; 
Or  like  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  ground, 
Where  all  are  ecatter'd  wide,  nought  regular  is  found. 

How  swift  is  her  change  from  the  gay  to  the  grave, 

Yet  some  listless  beings  approve  it; 
One  moment  she  frowns  like  Niagara's  wave, 

Then  smiles  like  the  rainbow  above  it : 

Still  Genius  clings  to  that  wandering  form, 
In  the  morning  of  bliss,  and  the  midnight  of  storm, 
And  'tis  said  when  she's  lost,  and  dismay'd,  and  distressed, 
She  weaves  his  bright  chaplet,  and  covers  his  breast; 
Then  frown,  smile,  or  wander,  be  trire  or  unkind, 
The  bard  must  still  love  thee, — 'lorn  angel  of  mind. 


POEMS.  93 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  BURNS'  POEMS,  PRESENTED 
TO  DOCTOR  HOSACK. 

GRANT  me  one  beam  of  thy  ethereal  fire, 
Lend  me  the  influence  of  thy  magic  lyre, 
Immortal  BURNS!  that  I  may  deftly  spread, 
A  screen  of  roses  over  HOSACK'S  head  : 
Oh !   I  have  sought  thee  in  my  musing  hours, 
And  bound  thy  wilder'd  harp  with  drooping  flowers, 
And  scatter'd  cypress  on  thy  lonely  bier, 
And  bent,  alas !  each  tendril  with  a  tear; 
Then,  grant  one  beam  of  thy  ethereal  fire, 
Lend  me  the  influence  of  thy  magic  lyre, 
Ill-fated  BURNS  !  that  I  may  deftly  spread, 
A  wreath  of  roses  over  HOSACK'S  head; 
To  shield  his  brow  from  baneful  dews  of  night, 
From  Envy's  scowl,  and  from  Detraction's  blight. 


94  POEMS. 


EPITAPH  ON  T.  L.  C.  Esq. 

YE  grave,  and  ye  gay,  and  ye  heedless,  draw  near, 
Here's  a  theme  for  a  smile,  and  a  thought  for  a  tear, 
For  the  mortal  still  lives,  and  is  wrangling  with  Wo, 
While  the  epitaph  hints  that  he's  happy  below  : 

However to  banish  all  scruple  and  guile, 

I'll  presume  to  point  out  where  'tis  proper  to  smile ; 
Then  smile  on  the  dead  !  like  the  infantile  flower, 
That  blooms  o'er  old  leaves,  which  have  fall'n  but  an  hour; 
For  they  thriv'd  on  the  stalk,  and  were  lovely  in  bloom, 
Sustain'd  all  their  fragrance,  and  pass'd  to  the  tomb : 
Their  fame  thus  establish'd,  what  stain  can  annoy  it  ? 
No  changes  can  brighten,  eclipse,  or  destroy  it; 
But  weep  for  the  rose-bud  admir'd  and  in  view, 
It's  expos  d  to  the  night  wind,  and  chill'd  by  the  dew, 
Yea,  anger  may  tear  it,  detraction  may  wound,  [ground. 
And  its  leaves,  soild  and  withered,   be  strew'd  on  the 

Our  Tom's  not  yet  dead ! of  this  fact  I  am  sure, 

He's  a  voice  for  the  just,  and  a  purse  for  the  poor, 


POEMS.  C5 

An  arm  for  the  faltering — a  bow  for  the  seer, 

A  sigh  for  mischance — and  for  pity — a  tear! 

For  the  church  he's  an  hour — for  the  sermon  a  nod, 

A  dread  of  what's  evil a  fear  of  his  God; 

An  eye,  shall  I  name  it  ?  like  that  laughing  Roman, 
Who  relinquish'd  the  world,  and  renown  for  a  woman ! 
He's  a  fault  not  uncommon,  but  settled  and  deep, 
For  he  talks,  and  he  walks,  and  so  forth  m  his  sleep; 

When  he  marries,  of  course,  there'll  be  struggling  and 
strife, 

For  I'm  sure  this  same  Tom  will  be  waking  his  wife  : 

Oh !  what  starts,   and  what  tremors,  what  moans  and 
what  sighing, 

There  will  certainly  be — when  Tom's  really  dying. 


96  POEMS. 


ON  HEARING  A  LADY  SING. 

OH  !  'twas  a  soft,  a  murmuring  sound, 

Like  that  by  fairy  minstrel  given, 
From  vaulted  cavern  under  ground, 

Or,  from  the  lightest  cloud  of  heaven; 
Its  rising  swell  excell'd  the  lyre, 

On  Sappho's  arm  of  snow  reclining, 
When  'erst  her  fingers  struck  the  wire. 

To  music  all  her  soul  resigning; 
But  soon  its  cadence  died  away, 

Like  sorrow's  moan,  or  lover's  sighing, 
Or  like  the  closing  wind  of  day, 

When  on  the  mountain's  bosom  dying. 


POEMS. 


SONNET  TO  DESPAIR. 

HENCE,  fell  Despair  !  in  yonder  dreary  cave 
I  saw  thee  stretch'd  in  agonizing  sleep, 
I  saw  thee  start,  and  heard  a  murmur  deep, 

Like  dying  winds,  that  sweep  the  pilgrim's  grave. 

Within  thy  cave  I  saw  a  taper  gleam, 

Its  waning  light  shone  dimly  o'er  thy  breast, 
On  thy  pale  brow,  a  paler  hand  was  prest, 

The  taper  fell,  and  thou  didst  cease  to  dream. 

The  orb  eclips'd,  again  beholds  the  light, 

The  wint'ry  stem  brings  forth  another  flower, 
And  fancy  builds  again  her  shattered  bower; 

'Tis  not  for  thee — sole  exile  of  the  night: — 

In  heaven  alone,  a  living  spark  can  gleam 

To  cheer  thy  feeble  light,  thy  darken'd  dream. 


98  POEMS. 


SONNET  TO  GENIUS. 

THY  light,  oh  Genius  !  I  have  dimly  seen, 

Low  on  the  earth,  beheld  its  smallest  spark  ; 

It  show'd  me  ills  I  knew  not  in  the  dark, 
And  as  I  thought,  till  then,  had  never  been. 
Thy  gleaming  fire  was  fed  by  flames  on  high, 

And  far  above  I  saw  no  trace  of  wo  ; 

But  all  who  linger'd  near  that  spot  below, 
Still  struck  the  pensive  breast,  and  bent  the  downcast  eye. 
Why  do  we  follow,  then,  thy  conscious  fire  ? 

For  sudden  death  gives  not  the  sleeper  pain  ; 

He  feels  no  wound,  he  sees  no  sanguine  stain, 
To  be  aware  of  much,  it  seems — is  fortune  dire. 
Then  fell  perception  quench  thy  deadly  spark, 
Leave  mortals  still  to  wander  in  the  dark. 


POEMS.  99 


LINES, 

Addressed  to  Miss  Parker,  on  seeing  a  withered  rose  upon  her 
bosom,  and  being  requested  to  compose  something  extempore, 

TO  THE  WITHERED  ROSE. 

WHY  dost  thou  droop  thy  fragrant  bead, 

Where  is  thy  vernal  bloom  ? 
Are  all  thy  damask  blushes  fled, 

And  is  that  breast  thy  tomb  ? 
Is  it  because  her  sparkling  eye 

Excels  Aurora's  smile  ? 
Or,  did  the  fragrance  of  her  sighj 

Thee  of  thy  sweets  beguile  ? 
No,  languid  flower,  no,  rose  forlorn, 

Envy  the  blow  hath  given; 
For  thou  didst,  blooming,  grace  a  thorn, 

Yet  died  when  placed  in  heaven. 


100  POEMS. 


LINES, 


WRITTEN  AFTER  WALKING  LATE  JN  A  GARDEN   AT 
ROSEMONT. 


THIS  musing  trance,  this  evening  hour, 

With  misery  agree, 
Yon  willow  shades  a  lovely  flower, 

It  does  not  bloom  for  me  : 
Dear  early  pledge  of  blushing  spring, 

Protection  thou  hast  found; 
But  I — like  yon  neglected  thing, 

Must  wither  on  the  ground  : 
Yes  ! — I  am  like  yon  bending  stem, 

No  pausing  pilgrim  views  it, 
The  dew-nymph  lends  no  evening  gem, 

And  heedless  footsteps  bruise  it. 
Farewell — for  night  advances  slow, 

To  hide  thy  fragrant  hues, 
To-morrow's  sun  shall  bid  thee  glow, 

Beneath  empyreal  dews : 


POEMS.  101 


But  what  shall  chase  the  night  away, 

That  settles  round  this  head  ? 
The  morning  sends  no  cheering  ray, 

Where  Hope  has  shuddering  fled- 
Come  then,  thou  dull  appalling  sprite, 

Thy  reign  is  fitting  sorrow; 
I  will  not  lose  thy  mantle  night, 

Nor  cast  it  off  to-morrow. 


9* 


102  POEMS. 


ON  WORLDLY  PRUDENCE. 

YE  who  would  rise  in  fortune's  day, 
Wake  early  in  the  morning, 
Send  truth  and  candour  far  away, 
And  mount  on  high  by  fawning; 
Consider  neither  law,  nor  right, 
Nor  word,  nor  theme,  nor  matter, 
His  sun  shall  shine  supremely  bright, 
Who  stoops  to  fawn  and  flatter  : 
But  he  who  fairly  speaks  his  mind, 
And  spurns  all  foul  dissembling, 
Meets  brows  averted,  looks  unkind. 
And  lives  in  fear  and  trembling. 


POEMS.  103 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  F. 

OH!  say  what  is  heaven,  bright  heaven  above, 
But  the  blest  seat  of  purity,  beauty,  and  love, 
And  what  is  an  angel,  or  seraph  on  high, 
But  one  who  bears  peace  and  delight  in  her  eye; 
Then  sure,  lovely  nymph,  blooming  maid,  it  must  be, 

That  thou  art  like  heaven,  and  heaven  like  thee; 

( 

For  thou  hast  the  purity,  beauty,  and  love 
Which  belong  to  bright  heaven,  to  heaven  above, 
And  thou  like  the  angel  or  seraph  on  high, 
Art  blest  both  with  peace  and  delight  in  thine  eye  : 
Then  sure,  lovely  nymph,  blooming  maid,  it  must  be, 
That  thou  art  like  heaven,  and  heaven  like  thee. 


104  POEMS. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  C. 

TEN  springs  o'erspread  with  rich  emblootn, 
Of  flowers  that  yield  a  sweet  perfume, 
Shall  o'er  thy  bosom  quickly  flee, 
E'er  virgin  bloom  shall  smile  on  thee; 
Then  when  the  graces  deck  thine  eye, 
And  zephyrs  court  thy  balmy  sigh, 
And  roses  deck  thy  flowing  hair, 
And  snow  enveils  thy  bosom  fair; 
When  smiles  bespeak  thine  artless  glee, 
Sometimes,  I  beg  it — think  of  me; 
Before  these  years  shall  bless  thy  sight, 
Should  I  be  number'd  with  lone  night, 
Where  fairy  ghosts  so  lightly  tread 
The  gloomy  regions  of  the  dead, 
I'll  flee  to  where  thy  garden  blows, 
And  waive  for  thee  some  favour'd  rose; 
But,  if  I  still  on  earth  should  be, 
My  memory  shall  roam  to  thee, 
And  linger  o'er  thy  bosom  fair, 
And  breathe  for  thee  a  fervent  prayer. 


POEMS.      .  ]05 


TO  THE  ^OLIAN  HARP. 

I  NEVER  hear  thy  trembling  string, 
Its  wild,  its  mournful  notes  prolong, 
That  fancy  does  not  quickly  bring 
To  mind,  some  bard  of  early  song  : 
For  once  like  thee  his  magic  tale 
In  music's  wildest  lore  was  drest, 
When  sorrow  bid  his  numbers  wail, 
Or  hope  delusive  soothed  his  breast; 
But  now — he  wants  the  zephyr's  breath, 
That  hovers  o'er  thy  trembling  wire; 
That  poet's  voice  is  still'd  by  death, 
And  cold  those  lips  that  could  inspire: 
So — shut  thee  from  the  airy  sprite 
That  gives  thy  mournful  song  its  breath; 
The  swell  that  erst  gave  such  delight, 
Shall  close  its  lingering  notes  in  death; 
To  sound  no  more — for  damp  decay 
Upon  thy  mouldering  strings  shall  dwell, 
And  thou  shalt  breathe  no  further  lay, 
And  thou  shalt  raise  no  future  swell. 


106  •    POEMS. 

The  bard  whose  harp  is  now  unstrung, 
Whose  eye  is  closed,  whose  cheek  is  cold, 
Again  shall  hear  his  anthems  sung, 
And  see  them  play'd  on  lyres  of  gold  : 
A  lovely  mnse,  with  sparkling  eye, 
Shall  wake  him  from  his  listless  sleep, 
And  lead  him  to  the  orient  sky, 
Where  merit  is  not  doom'd  to  weep  : 
But  where  a  fairy  minstrel's  hand 
Shall  strike  such  lingering  notes  as  thine, 
While  Shakspeare,  with  the  poet-hand, 
Shall  rouse  the  organ's  peal  sublime. 


POEMS.  107 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  A  PAINTING  OP  MALBONE'S,  CALLED 

"THE  HOURS," — IN  WHICH  THERE  ARE  THREE  FEMALE 

FIGURES,    REPRESENTING  "  THE  PAST,    PRESENT,   AND    FU 
TURE." 


OH  !  where  has  Genius  deck'd  her  vermil  bowers, 
To  what  lone  covert  has  the  fairy  fled, 
She  built  with  ecstasy  these  blooming  hours, 
And  wove  a  chaplet  for  her  Malbone's  head. 
In  that  fair  wreath  did  every  wild-flower  bloom, 
And  it  was  twin'd  with  shadowy  cypress  round, 
Which  droop'd-— sad  omen  of  his  early  doom, 
And  every  leaf  fell  withering  to  the  ground. 

Methought  I  linger'd  near  the  dreaming  bowers 
Where  Fancy  dwells  fast  by  the  dimpling  wave; 
The  earth  was  spread  with  ocean's  sparkling  flowers, 
There  Genius  bent  o'er  Malbone's  early  grave. 
Her  wreath  with  ozier  sprigs  was  made, 
Among  the  leaves  pale  glow-worms  stray'd ; 


108  '          t  POEMS. 

Her  brow  was  thoughtful  and  distress'd, 

And  blood-stain'd  was  her  snowy  breast : 

For  Envy,  like  a  withering  blight, 

Stole  o'er  her  blossoming  shades  at  night; 

Sear'd  every  rose  with  baneful  art, 

And  aim'd  a  dagger  at  her  heart. 

She  spoke: — "Oh  Malbone,  when  distress'd, 

"  I  bath'd  thy  brow,  and  sooth'd  thy  breast ; 

"  And  when  I  heard  thy  latest  sighs, 

"  I  smooth'd  thy  couch,  and  clos'd  thine  eyes. 

"  Ye  moonlight  fairies  hasten  around, 

"  And  deck  with  me  this  hallowed  ground; 

"  The  silent  echo-phantom  raise, 

"  And  bring  the  harp  that  zephyr  plays; 

"  Go,  gather  from  the  bending  flower 

"  The  cold  bright  dew  of  midnight  hour." 

'Twas  done  ;  the  dew  gleam'd  o'er  his  grave 

Like  fearful  comets  o'er  the  wave  ; 

Such  lights  remorse  holds  high,  to  show 

The  never-ending  void  of  wo. 

Next  she  unwound  a  chain  of  flowers, 

That  hid  her  favourite's  work,  "  The  Hours  :' 

She  held  the  picture  near  her  sight, 

Which  cast  a  glimmering  ray  of  light; 


POEMS.  109 

For  e'en  the  lowest  dungeon  dark 
Is  'lumin'd  by  that  living  spark, 
And  o'er  the  mist  of  fen  or  spray, 
She  throws  the  clearest  light  of  day. 
Yea,  things  that  in  the  tomb  have  lain, 

Rise  in  that  light  to  life  again. 

% 

A  murmuring  strain  the  silence  broke, 

And  thus  immortal  Genius  spoke  : 

"  How  softly  steals  the  moonlight  ray 

"  Across  the  dimpling  water; 

"  How  softly  steals  the  bloom  of  May 

"  O'er  Beauty's  blushing  daughter. 

"  So  inspiration  softly  steals 

"  O'er  brows  by  thinking  riven; 

"  And  he  who  owns  her  empire,  feels, 

"  One  moment — feels  in  Heaven. 

"  When  thoughts  conflicting  rule  the  braiu, 

11  Health's  rosy  semblance  flies; 

"  When  warriors  combat  o'er  the  plain, 

"  The  trodden  wild-flower  dies. 

"  So  softly  mid  the  mental  strife 

"  Stalks  fell  disease  unknown  ; 

"  So,  Malbone  gave  his  pictures  life, 

"  By  shortening  his  own. 
10 


.  POEMS. 

"  The  present  hour  to  me  is  sad, 

"  It  does  not  seem  so  here ; 

"  The  future  wears  an  angel  smile, 

"  The  past  hour  hides  a  tear  : 

"  Her  mind  intent  on  things  gone  by, 

"  Seems  lost,  in  fields  of  gloom, 

"  As  though  her  fixt,  and  pitying  eye, 

"  Descried  this  lonely  tomb  ! 

"  Smile  on,  enchanting  future  hour, 

"  For  future  hours  shall  give 

"  To  me  a  talisman  of  power 

"  To  bid  him  rise,  and  live. 

"  Then  sovereign  fame  shall  hover  near, 

"  To  lift  this  mould'ring  stone, 

"  And  prism-spirits  deck  his  bier, 

"  With  colours  like  his  own;" 

While  life  shall  light  the  dwelling  dire, 

On  death's  mysterious  shore, 

And  use  the  same  Promethian  fire 

That  Malbone  used  before. 


POEMS.  HI 


TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  1ADY,  WHO  DIED  UPON  HER 
BIRTH  DAY,  AGED  23  YEARS. 


THOU  who  hast  travell'd,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  ponderous  world,  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  view'd  vast  nature's  mighty  store 

Of  matter  rare; 

Say,  hastthou  seen  the  dreary  port, 
Where  death  convenes  his  pallid  court, 
And  makes  the  fleeting  breath  his  sport, 

And  pain  and  care  ? 

Thou,  who  hast  turn'd,  from  youth  to  age, 
Art's  varied  works,  from  page  to  page, 
And  knowledge  gain'd  from  hoary  sage 

Or  wisdom's  lore; 
Say,  hast  thou  found  the  secret  fire 
That  can  the  lifeless  mass  inspire, 
And  re-illume  death's  taper  dire 

On  Lethe's  shore  ? 


112  POEMS. 

Ye  who  have  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  wild, 
And  made  acquaintance  with  pure  nature's  works, 
And  heard  some  pilgrim's  melancholy  tale, 
And  wept  at  'lorn  misfortune's  plaint — attend. 

Ah  !  well-a-day  !  the  time  has  long  since  past 
When  Eden's  garden  bloom'd  upon  the  earth, 

And  death  was  bound  in  trance alas  ! 

Youth's  rosy  tinge  is  made  the  scorn  of  fate; 

Like  some  high  banner,  which  proud  chieftains  rear, 

And  death  wars  most  against  it. 

Come,  solitary  Muse,  from  some  lone  haunt 

Prepare  thy  melancholy  wailing  lyre, 

And,  in  a  symphony  more  softly  wild 

Than  zephyrs  breathe  upon  their  airy  harp, 

Sing  of  the  early  loss  of  her  I  mourn. 

In  youth's  ambrosial  spring,  when  beauty  bloom'd, 

And  every  virtue  follow'd  in  her  train, 

The  cruel  tyrant  came,  bade  her  depart, 

And  leave  that  mazy  labyrinth,  the  world. 

It  was  her  natal  day;  upon  that  day 

When  her  fond  mother  drest  her  face  in  smiles 

As  she  did  bless  her : — ah  !  now  the  scene  is  chang'd; 

That  mother's  heart  is  rent,  her  eyes  are  dimm'd  with 

tears; 
Two  infant  babes  are  left;  'tis  theirs  to  tread 


POEMS.  113 

The  thorny  paths  of  life — without  a  mother 
To  direct  their  steps,  or  hless  them  with  her  care. 
Ah,  lovely  babes  !  ye  know  not  yet  your  loss; 
But  ye  shall  slumber  in  a  stormy  night, 
And  in  the  morn  no  mother  meet  you  : 
You  shall  weep  !  she  cannot  dry  your  tears. 
Thou,  mournful  partner,  hast  one  dreadful  foe; 
That  foe,  Reality  : — she  points  to  thy  great  loss, 
And  goads  thy  bosom  with  unceasing  pain; 
But  memory  more  kindly  leads  thee  back 
To  some  sweet  garden,  where  she  lately  trod; 
To  some  wild  rosebud,  that  once  claimed  her  care, 
And,  like  a  blushing  virgin,  bows  its  head. 
Hail,  memory,  thou  picture  of  the  past, 
Thou  stern  recorder,  thou  reflected  light; 
Soul  of  all  science,  and  ally  of  thought ! 
Farewell,  unconscious  shade;  o'er  thy  pale  bier 
A  drooping  mother  mourns;  a  sister  weeps, 
And  a  lone  brother  drops  the  manly  tear: 
In  domes  more  brilliant  than  the  Indian  pile, 
High  rais'd  and  burnish'd  with  resplendent  gold, 
Where  angels  whisper  sacred  madrigals, 
And  breathe  the  praises  of  heaven's  mighty  King, 
Her  tranquil  soul  has  rest; — above  her  head 
10* 


114  POEMS. 

A  canopy  of  Tyre's  imperial  die, 
Fann'd  by  the  zephyr,  waves,  and  beaming  gems, 
Like  stars  that  glitter  on  the  robe  of  night, 
Shine  o'er  its  ample  folds. 


POEMS. 


TRIBUTE 


TO  MRS.  BARNES,  OF  THE  NEW-YORK  THEATRE. 


Genius  is  never  bonour'd  till  she's  past; 
Is  never  gifted,  but  when  wanting  nought ; 
Is  never  worshipp'd  by  the  callous  world,- 
Save  by  some  monument,  or  marble  urn, 
That  tells  you  where  she  starv'd. 

FARMER. 


SHALT  thou  unnotic'd  tread  the  mimic  stage, 
And  bear  no  trophy  from  the  minstrel's  page; 
Forbid  it,  heaven  !  though  humble  be  the  power 
That  boasts  thy  fame,  and  though  the  faded  flower 
Remains  alone  to  deck  her  feeble  head, 
Pale  as  the  tomb,  and  cheerless  as  the  dead; 
Yet  still,  my  muse  shall  bid  thy  memory  live, 
In  this  dull  song — 'tis  all  she  has  to  give. 

When  shipwreck'd  Bertram  gain'd  the  desert  strand, 
And  sought  the  towers  of  warlike  Aldobcand, 
Who  can  forget  the  magic  of  thy  part, 
Which  held  in  bondage  every  feeling  heart  ? 


116  POEMS. 

When  wild  distraction  rul'd  thine  aching  head, 
The  drama  vanish'd,  and  the  actress  fled; 
No  more  was  study,  art,  or  fiction  seen, 
'Twas  truth — 'twas  madness, — it  was  Imogine. 
When  fix'd  expression  marks  the  glazing  eye, 
And  speaks  with  power,  that  even  words  deny; 
When  wo  deprives  the  wasted  form  of  rest, 
And  desolation  haunts  the  stormy  breast; 
When  impulse  governs,  and  when  murmurs  die, 
That  claim,  from  kindred  minds,  the  kindred  sigh, 
Assert'  thy  claim — the  tragic  laurel  wear, 
And,  like  immortal  Siddons, — take  the  chair. 


POEMS.  117 


TO  DR.  JAMES  EDDY, 

UPON  HIS  LEAVING  NEW-YORK  FOR  BATAVIA. 

WHEN  far  upon  the  waters  deep, 

May  no  fond  cares  distress  thee; 
May'st  thou  on  blooming  poppies  sleep, 

And  passing  shadows  bless  thee. 
May  fortune  strew  thy  devious  way 

With  golden  sands  and  flowers; 
May  mind's  imperial  impulse  sway, 

Health  lead  thee  to  her  bowers  : 
And,  when  returning  home,  my  friend, 

May  spring-gales  rule  the  billow; 
May  blushing  beauty  deftly  lend 

Her  aid  to  deck  thy  pillow; 
For  he  who  on  the  friendless  strand 

Seeks  fortune,  could  not  bear  it, 
Did  he  not  dream  that  some  fair  hand, 

A  wife's,  perhaps,  would  share  it. 


118  POEMS. 


EPITAPH 

ON  THE  REV.  ANDREW  M'CULLY,  FOUNDER  OF  THE  MASONIC 
LODGE    IN    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 


BENEATH  this  stone,  in  solitary  bed, 
A  brother  Mason  rests  his  wearied  head; 
His  heart  was  once  by  tender  pity  sway'd, 
And  pale  misfortune  found  his 'ready  aid; 
But  well-a-day,  when  helpless  age  drew  near, 
Too  poor  to  aid,  he  spared  distress  a  tear; 
The  heavenly  Master  saw  his  frame  deprest, 
His  mind  decay'd,  and  peace  denied  his  breast; 
In  his  behalf  that  Master  interpos'd, 
And  here,  alas !   the  lodge  of  life  he  clos'd. 


POEMS.  H9 


AN  ESSAY  ON  TASTE: 

DEDICATED  TO  DR.  J.  W.  FRANCIS,  PROFESSOR  OF  THE  IN 
STITUTES  OF  MEDICINE  AND  FORENSIC  MEDICINE,  IN  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  NEW-YORK. 

INTRODUCTION. 

ONE  pang,  my  valued  noble  friend, 

Disturbs  my  aching  heart; 
Our  kindred  greetings  soon  must  end, 

Yes,  FRANCIS,  we  must  part. 

Far  o'er  the  waste  of  waters  loud, 

Ere  long  thy  friend  shall  be; 
But  fancy,  in  a  silver  cloud, 

Shall  light  him  back  to  thee. 

This  offering1  to  thy  fostering  hand, 

As  memory's  boon  I  give; 
'Tis  cast  upon  no  barren  strand, 

Thy  name  shall  bid  it  live. 


120  POEMS. 

Aware  that  in  a  favoured  view 

It  fondly  meets  thy  sight, 
Like  SCOTT,  I  will  not  say  adieu, 

But  merely  add — "good-night."* 

In  these  sad  words,  a  long  farewell 

Is  seen  if  construed  right; 
For  few  with  golden  daylight  dwell, 

The  world — the  world  is  night. 

Farewell !  but  I  shall  hold  thee  nigh, 
When  scenes  are  bright  and  gleaming; 

In  fancy's  mental  mystery 

We'll  still  converse  when  dreaming. 

TO   CROAKER.f 

When  last  I  saw  your  elfin  muse, 

She  smiled,  and  gaily  beckon'd; 
And  begg'd  that  I  would  not  refuse 

Forthwith  to  be  her  second. 
I  bow'd,  and  undertook  the  task, 

No  whispering  fiend  was  nigh; 

*  "  Good-night  to  Marmion," 

f  A  satirical  writer,  whose  poetical  effusions  are,  at  this  time,  enriching 
the  gazettes  and  chronicles  of  the  day  ;  much  to  the  merriment  of  our 
worthy  "  Knickerbockers." 


POEMS. 

'Tis  hard  when  gentle  women  ask 

For  poets  to  deny. 
Oh !  there  was  rapture  in  her  laugh, 

Her  eye — old  Nick  was  in  it; 
That  intellectual  telegraph, 

Spoke  volumes  in  a  minute. 
Thy  pen  from  baneful  ravens  take, 

Shield  in  a  cloud  thy  form, 
Get  poison  from  the  Stygian  lake, 

And  wildness  from  the  storm. 
But  aim  not  at  some  brow  distressed, 

Let  not  thy  shining  dart 
Wound  pale  misfortune's  heaving  breast, 

Or  rankle  in  her  heart. 
Guard  lovely  woman's  name  from  ill, 

From  slander  and  from  guile; 
For  he  that  sooths  an  angel  still 

Shall  have  that  angel's  smile. 
I've  broken  many  a  helm  and  spear, 

Ye  fair  ones,  to  protect  you; 
And  ever  held  your  worth  too  dear, 

To  let  the  muse  neglect  you. 
Not  for  the  lovely  vermil  hue 

That  blushes  on  the  face, 

11 


122  POEMS. 

Nor  yet  the  eye's  celestial  blue, 

Exterior  form,  nor  grace  : 
These,  let  the  gazing  fool  admire, 

Whose  vision  is  confin'd; 
The  theme  of  every  angel's  lyre 

In  heaven — is  only  mind. 

Some  love  the  sun's  meridian  glow, 

Some  love  the  moon  declining; 
Some  love  the  fair,  while  some  bestow, 

Like  me,  their  love  on  rhyming. 
Old  SOCRATES  lov'd  tranquil  peace, 

His  wife  was  loud  and  cross; 
The  Roman  senators  lov'd  geese, 

CALIGULA — his  horse: 
OCTAVIUS  lov'd  the  voice  of  fame, 

Young  AMMON — brimming  glasses; 
LUCRETIA  lov'd  a  spotless  name, 

And  ANTHONY — the  lasses. 
BRUTUS  lov'd  honour's  fair  control, 

Despising  guile  and  pelf; 
While  envy  govern'd  CASSIUS'  soul, 

He  only  lov'd — himself. 
Old  CATO  lov'd  the  voice  of  truth, 

Great  HANNIBAL  lov'd  walking;* 

*  Alluding  to  his  numerous  and  extensive  marches. 


POEMS.  123 

And  CICERO,  in  age  and  youth, 

Lov'd  boasting  and  loud  talking. 
Immortal  WASHINGTON  alone 

His  bleeding  country  lov'd : 
Around  him  beaming  halos  shone, 

And  men  and  gods  approv'd. 

High  in  the  motley  school  of  taste, 

Behold  Lord  BYRON  stand; 
One  faithful  friend  his  fortunes  grac'd, 

A  dog*  of  Newfoundland  : 
And  when,  ah  melancholy  doom, 

The  dog's  short  life  was  o'er, 
His  lordship  built  a  splendid  tomb, 

And  in  his  place  chose  MOORE. t 
But  still  the  first  runs  in  his  head, 

As  o'er  the  East  he's  prowling; 
Hence  they  who  have  "  Childe  Harold"  read, 

Declare  he's  always  growling. 

i 

Next  COLERIDGE,  prince  of  rhyming  wights, 
For  friendship  had  an  itch; 

*  See  his  lordship's  "  Epitaph  on  a  Newfoundland  dog." 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains,  these  stones  arise, 
I  never  had  but  one,  and  here  he  lies- 

f  Lord  Byron,  soon  after  losing  his  dog,  dedicated  a  poem  to  Moore, 
commencing  thus,  "  My  dear  friend-" 


124  POEMS. 

So  straight  a  poem  he  indites, 

About  a  "  Mastiff  bitch."* 
But  fell  misfortune  always  gives 

Her  share  of  ills,  'tis  said, 
For  though  the  friendly  mastiff  lives, 

The  book,  alas  ! — is  dead. 
From  OTWAY  this  same  taste  was  got, 

That  rules  such  snarling  natures; 
For  in  his  fam'd  Venetian  plot, 

He  called  "  dogs,  honest  creatures." 
SCOTT'S  dogs  of  dark  St.  Hubert's  breed, 

Oh  shame — have  just  been  sold  : 
For  them  he  has  no  further  need, 

His  present  friend  is  gold. 

BOB  SOUTHEY  has  a  curious  taste, 

What  is  the  man  about  ? 
To  make  a  slender  virgin  waste 

Her  strength  on  "  stone  and  shout."! 

*  See  his  "  Chrystabelle,"  where,  among-  a  host  of  other  beauties,  are 
the  following  lines : 

"  Sir  Listine,  that  baron  rich, 
"  Had  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch. 

It  was  no  doubt  in  consequence  of  this,  that  Lord  Byron  called  it  "  That 
singitlarty  beautiful  Poem ,"  as  no  other  dog  is  mentioned  in  it. 

f  See  his  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"  where  the  Heroine, 

with  stone  and  shout, 

Assails  the  bats  obscene,  and  drives  them  out. 


POEMS.  125 

Mark  how  the  whirling  brick-bats  fly 

Along  the  frighted  town ; 
Oh  !  Brahma,  if  she  flings  so  high, 

She'll  knock  her  candles  down.* 
Fall,  lovely  maiden,  on  thy  knees, 

Make  haste  and  say  thy  prayers ; 
The  night's  inclement,  sure  you'll  freeze, 

Before  you  get  up  stairs. 
Indeed,  indeed,  the  lady  said, 

My  chamber's  much  too  high, 
What  put  it  into  SOUTHEY'S  head, 

To  snore  in  yonder  sky. 
The  way  to  bed  is  very  long, 

My  shoes,  too,  want  repair; 
Lord,  how  these  idle  fools  of  song, 

Love  castles  in  the  air  ! 

VOLTAIRE,  voluminous  and  long, 

Had  still  a  taste  uncivil: 
For  'ike  immortal  MILTON'S  song, 

His  hero  is  the  Devil. 


*  "  Her  chamber  lights  were  in  the  starry  sky, 
"  The  winds  and  waters  were  her  lullaby. 

11* 


126  POEMS. 

STERNE,  that  eccentric  king  of  wit, 

STERNE  had  a  taste  for  folly; 
And  stealing  here  and  there  a  bit, 

From  BURTON'S  "  Melancholy." 

Our  JARVIS*  loves  to  steal  they  say, 

Like  Robin  Hood  of  yore; 
He  gives  what  he  has  stolen  to-day. 

To-morrow  to  the  poor. 
Indeed,  the  allegation's  dire, 

No  matter — he  is  given 
To  filching  sundry  sparks  of  fire, 

Promethean  fire  from  heaven : 
What  he  acquires  in  this  sly  way, 

How  readily  he  gives; 
Each  picture  shares  a  magic  ray, 

And  hence  his  canvass  lives. 

DRYDEN,  that  master  of  the  age, 

Had  learn'd  the  art  of  sinking; 
And  show'd,  upon  the  English  stage, 

His  precious  taste  for  "  blinking. "t 

*  J.  W.  Jarvis,  the  celebrated  portrait  painter,  of  New- York. 

f  See  his  play  of  "  All  for  Love,  or  the  World  Well  Lost ;"  where  his 
general  make's  this  remark,  "  See  how  he  blinks. " 


POEMS.  127 


Immortal  POPE,  that  spiteful  elf, 
Had  one  ungracious  failing; 

He  own'd  no  female  sway  himself, 
His  taste  was,  therefore,  railing. 

SWIFT,  though  a  parson,  lov'd  to  jeer. 

E'en  better  than  to  feast; 
His  taste,  indeed,  was  sometimes  queer, 

But  vulgar  as  a  beast. 

CAMPBELL,  by  impulse  swept  along, 

To  Wyoming  is  carried; 
He  loves  (we  learn  it  from  that  song) 

To  get  the  ladies  married. 
The  ardent  lover  scarcely  bow'd 

To  Gertrude,  fair  and  lone, 
Ere  with  determined  haste*  he  vow'd 

To  make  her  hand  his  own. 
His  taste — but  soft — I'll  pass  it  by, 

Lest  my  frail  muse  should  falter; 
For  ladies  sometimes  smile  and  sigh, 

And  tremble  at  the  altar. 

*  See  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 


128  POEMS. 

From  Europe's  gardens  let  us  pass. 

Have  we  no  native  flowers  ? 
All  hail  Columbia's  HUDIBRAS, 

Yes,  FRENEAU*  still  is  ours. 
His  name  to  every  heart  is  dear; 

When  liberty  distress'd 
Reclin'd  against  her  shatter'd  spear, 

To  bind  her  bleeding  breast; 
She  found  the  patriot-minstrel  nigh, 

He  stay'd  the  foeman's  rage; 
His  voice  was  then  her  prophecy, 

Her  banner  was  his  page. 

And  shall  I  pass  great  EDWARDS!  by, 

No — halt  thou  wandering  muse; 
Yield  him  thy  tributary  sigh, 

Scatter  Castalian  dews 
Upon  his  melancholy  bier  : 

O'er  turf  and  flowers  around, 
Religion  claims  thy  hallow'd  tear, 

For  EDWARDS,  the  profound. 

*  Philip  Freneau,  a  native  of  New-Jersey,  whose  poems  and  other  lite 
rary  labours,  no  less  than  his  patriotism  in  the  cause  of  American  freedom, 
entitle  him  to  pre-eminence. 

f  The  celebrated  President  Jonathan  Edwards  of  Princeton  College, 
New-Jersey,  whose  theological  writings  are  familiarly  known  in  both 
hemispheres. 


POEMS.  129 


Theology  has  never  known 

A  friend  more  skill'd  or  pure, 
Than  he  who  sleeps  beneath  this  stone, 

And  made  his  blessings  sure. 
Rest,  patriot  of  angel  choirs, 

From  early  youth  to  age; 
'Till  thou  art  wak'd  by  gleaming  fires, 

Like  those  upon  thy  page. 

Old  FRANKLIN,  like  a  wizard  dire, 

Was  fond  of  working  wonders; 
So  he  usurp'd  the  light'ning's  fire, 

And  left  the  fair  its  thunders. 
On  every  land,  and  every  coast, 

This  proverb  has  been  granted, 
That  mortals  still  bestow  the  most 

Where  there  is  little  wanted. 
He  hated  tinsel  and  deceit, 

Avoided  courts  and  riot, 
His  taste  was  not  for  roasted  meat, 

But  vegetable  diet.* 
He  seldom  threw  an  hour  away, 

He  scorn'd  to  bow  and  flatter; 


*  See  his  works,  where  more  than  forty  dishes  are  enumerated,  made 
up  of  vegetables  alone. 


130  POEMS. 

But,  if  a  lassie  pass'd  that  way, 
He  cast  a  "  sheep's  eye"  at  her. 

And  this  is  not  a  whit  more  strange 
Than  other  idle  stories; 

For  he  who  through  the  heavens  would  range, 
Must  study  woman's  glories. 

First  in  the  drama's  tragic  page, 

See  COOPER*  take  the  chair; 
That  ruling  monarch  of  the  stage, 

Has  now  no  equal  there. 
His  voice,  unbounded  as  the  storm, 

When  thunders  shake  the  sky;     * 
His  brow  commanding,  and  his  form 

The  type  of  symmetry. 
His  eye,  expression's  quick  appeal, 

Transmitter  of  the  soul, 
Might  almost  make  a  Dutchman  feel 

Its  wizard-like  control. 
"  For  England''  hold  thy  course  again, 

Thy  beamy  lance  prepare, 
Pale  envy's  short  attack  sustain, 

And  be — a  GARRICK  there. 

*  Thomas  A.  Cooper,  Esq.  of  New-York. 


POEMS.  131 

Of  COOPER'S  taste,  what  shall  I  say, 

I'll  let  the  subject  rest; 
Hence,  stranger,  hence,  and  see  him  play, 

Old  SHAKSPEARE  tells  it  best. 
For  me,  a  wild  in  enthusiasm, 

Hath  rul'd  my  bosom  still; 
COOPER  long  since  usurp'd  a  chasm, 

That  none,  save  he,  can  fill. 

Yon  bark  along  the  foamy  deep,     • 

Flits  swifter  than  a  dream 
O'er  labour's  sound  refreshing  sle>ep, 

For  she's  propell'd  by  steam. 
Long  shall  bewailing  science  mourn, 

O'er  FULTON'S*  cherish'd  name; 
The  crown  from  Neptune's  brow  is  torn, 

To  grace  the  god  of  flame. 
He  lov'd,  'mid  thought's  ravines,  to  dwell, 

Deep  by  the  tempest  riven; 
He  trac'd  perfection  to  her  cell, 

And  then — pass'd  on  to  heaven. 

Uninjur'd  if  one  chord  remains, 
Upon  my  shatter'd  lyre, 

*  Robert  Fulton,  Esq.  See  his  life  by  Colden. 


132  POEMS. 

If  .ever  it  was  blest  with  strains, 

To  govern  or  inspire; 
Ye  whispering  spirits  of  the  lea, 

Who  glide  in  shadow's  light; 
Raise  one  delusive  symphony, 

To  genius  and  to  WHITE.* 
Alas !  how  soon  the  forest  flower 

Is  chill'd  by  early  frost, 
And  intellect's  discarded  bower, 

In  poverty  is  lost. 
In  WHITE  was  every  mental  charm, 

And  moral  sense  combin'd; 
No  fatal  prospect  could  disarm 

The  vigour  of  his  mind. 
His  ardent  spirit  still  was  blest, 

Mid  falt'ring  health's  decay, 
For  honours  cheer'd  his  youthful  breast, 

'Till  death  usurp'd  its  sway. 
Life's  taper  sometimes  scarcely  gleams, 

Where  genius  is  resplendent; 
Nay,  magic  fancy  often  seems 
On  death's  approach  attendant. 

*  The  late  Henry  Kirk  White. 


POEMS.  133 

. 

In  ruin'd  shrines,  and  shatter'd  walls, 

A  thousand  sunbeams  stray; 
So,  in  the  spirit's  rifted  halls, 

Beams  intellectual  day. 
His  taste  a  minstrel  pilgrim  gives 

To  whom  his  fame  was  known; 
His  name  in  BYRON'S  numbers  lives, 

It  lives  too,  in  his  own. 

STUART,*  thou  know'st  the  bounded  sway 

That  rules  my  rustic  lyre; 
Alas  !  it  yields  no  fairy  lay 

To  gladden  or  inspire: 
Or  I  would  bare  my  trembling  arm, 

And  raise  its  numbers  loud,  ' 
Till  every  sounding  wire  should  charm 

Some  angel  from  his  cloud. 
According  numbers  then  should  give 

Thy  genius  its  due, 
And  every  voluntary  live, 

Because  itbreath'd  of  you. 
Proceed  in  thy  admir'd  career, 

Though  unobtrusive,  strong; 


*  Thomas  Middleton  Stuart,  M.  D.  of  Beaufort,  South-Carolina. 

12 


134  POEMS. 

Though  tranquil,  ardent  and  sincere, 

And  lofty  in  thy  song. 
I  need  not  dwell  upon  thy  taste, 

Although  the  theme  invites; 
'Tis  splendid,  polish'd,  learn'd,  and  chaste, 

In  short — 'tis  HENRY  WHITE'S. 

If  I  forget  thee,  RUSH,*  may  rest 

Flee  reckless  from  my  bosom; 
May  I,  unhonour'd  and  unblest, 

Sink — like  the  wint'ry  blossom. 
May  every  favour'd  muse  retire, 

And  every  friend  forego  me; 
May  fell  detraction  break  my  lyre, 

And  minstrels  never  know  me. 
No  favour'd  poet  writes  thy  name 

Upon  his  magic  scroll; 
I  give  (thou'rt  not  in  need  of  fame) 

The  impulse  of  my  soul. 
O'er  thee  a  lonely  woodland  muse 

Shall  weave  a  shadowy  screen; 
And  fair  Aurora's  freshest  dews 

Shall  keep  thy  grave-turf  green. 

*  Benjamin  Rush,  justly  styled  the  American  Sydenham. 


POEMS.  135 

Yea,  there  shall  thrive  continual  bloom, 

No  stem  shall  droop  or  die; 
Detraction  shall  avoid  thy  tomb, 

And  whispering  envy  sigh. 
His  taste  was  to  improve  the  age 

By  reason's  power  divine; 
His  life  was  all  a  pilgrimage 

To  her  unvarnish'd  shrine. 
Tradition's  mystic  lore  he  scann'd, 

Anatomiz'd*  the  mind, 
And,  with  a  master's  ruling  hand, 

Cast  error  to  the  wind. 
Nay,  he  explor'd  the  maze  of  doubt, 

Trac'd  science  to  her  throne, 
And  where  he  found  her  lights  were  out, 

Supplied  lights  of  his  own. 

Next  RUSH  in  science  and  in  name, 

See  gifted  HOSACKJ  stand; 
Endow'd  with  England's  proffer'd  fame, 

The  BOERHAAVE  of  our  land. 

*  See  that  unrivalled  production,  "  Rush  on  the  Mind." 

t  Dr.  David  Hosack,  F.R.S.  &c.  professor  of  (he  theory  and  practice 
of  medicine,  in  the  University  of  New-York. 


136  POEMS. 

O'er  reason  and  conviction  still, 

He  holds  imperial  sway; 
Possessing,  with  unbounded  skill, 

The  talent  to  convey. 
Clear  as  the  fountain's  limpid  streams, 

That  over  crystals  sweep, 
His  mind  a  polish'd  mirror  seems, 

And  his  research  is  deep. 
Go,  view  those  sweet  neglected  flowers,* 

Like  Eden's  groves  of  yore, 
E'er  ADAM  left  his  fragrant  bowers, 

To  seek  some  wilder'd  shore: 
There  did  the  mingling  plantsf  around 

A  wonderous  scene  unfold, 
For,  strange  to  tell,  these  lovers  found 

Return,  unsway'd  by  gold. 
And  stranger  yet,  though  many  a  fair 

By  many  a  youth  was  blest, 
No  noisy  scandal  rent  the  air, 

No  jealousy  distrest: 
Like  spotless  innocence  they  smil'd, 

This — this  was  HOSACK'S  taste: 

*  The  Elgin  Botanic  Garden, 
f  See  the  "  Loves  of  the  Plants." 


POEMS. 

Now,  withering  on  the  sterile  wild, 

They're  trampled  and  defac'd. 
Oh  !  once  he  held  communion  sweet. 

And  silent  through  the  day, 
With  forms  that  hid  no  deep  deceit, 

And  smil'd  not  to  betray. 
To  bosoms  scath'd  by  misery's  blight, 

What  solace  can  be  given, 
Like  flowers  that  wear  the  hues  of  light, 

And  speak  the  words  of  heaven  ? 

Come,  lonely  muse,  the  deep-ton'd  storm 

Is  bounding  through  the  sky; 
I  always  seek  thy  angel  form, 

When  storm  or  wo  is  nigh. 
And  I  have  found  thee  in  thy  cell, 

When  passing  ills  deprest  me, 
From  morning's  beam  till  midnight's  bell, 

Thy  smile  has  sometimes  blest  me. 
For  thee  1  shun  the  hurried  joy, 

Where  noise  and  mirth  preside; 
If  there  is  bliss  without  alloy, 

I've  found  it  by  thy  side. 

12* 


138  POEMS. 

.  ' 

Then  cherish  SMITH'S*  declining  hour, 

Mark  his  time  honour'd  hair, 
Like  snow  upon  a  wasted  tower, 

Whose  roof  is  thin  and  bare. 
On  fair  philosophy,  erewhile, 

He  plac'd  a  firm  reliance; 
You'll  find  upon  his  page  her  smile, 

But  health  fled  with  her  science. 
Ah  !  'tis  a  melancholy  truth, 

That  application's  sway 
Still  preys  upon  the  spoils  of  youth, 

And  hastens  time's  decay. 
But  he  was  blest,  for  in  his  bower 

There  bloom'd  a  lovely  maid; 
His  daughter  was  a  fragrant  flower, 

But  flowers  are  doom'd  to  fade. 
Her  smile  shone  o'er  his  aged  form, 

And  half  his  anguish  fled; 
When,  like  the  rainbow  o'er  a  storm, 

She  bent,  to  bind  his  head. 

*  Samuel  Stanhope  Smith,  D.  D.  LL.D.  late  president  of  Princeton 
College,  whose  sermons,  lectures  on  moral  philosophy,  and  other  writ 
ings,  evince  the  Christian  and  the  sage. 


POEMS.  139 

'Tis  past,  no  human  power  could  save 

From  blight,  that  early  blossom; 
Ye,  who  would  view  the  daughter's  grave, 

Go — seek  the  father's  bosom. 
Theology's  pure  lines  he  trac'd, 

Far  o'er  contention's  wild; 
Her  mandates  found  his  early  taste, 

Before  he  lost  his  child. 
And  since,  when  bow'd  with  age  and  grief 

Of  that  sweet  flower  bereft, 
Religion  is  his  sole  relief, 

His  only  blessing  left. 

What  chain  can  fetter  rising  thought, 

Or  hold  in  bonds  the  mind  ? 
Where  are  the  bands  of  fancy  wrought  ? 

Can  genius  be  connVd  ? 
Behold  yon  exile, is  he  free  ? 

Can  shackles  bind  his  heart  ? 
Can  long  protracted  misery 

Enslave  thee,  BUONAPARTE  ? 
The  soul,  immeasurably  great, 

Is  to  the  body  joiu'd; 
What  voice,  within  the  haunts  of  fate, 

Can  cry,  "  hold,  hold"  to  mind  ? 


140  POEMS. 

As  soul  to  body,  and  no  more, 

Is  BUONAPARTE  held  down: 
Go,  visit  stern  Iberia's  shore, 

E'en  now  she  wears  his  frown; 
Then  seek  the  sanguine  battle  field, 

There,  still  behold  his  arm, 
His  sword,  see  warlike  science  wield, 

Which  could  himself  disarm. 
Within  the  Russian  Kremlin  drear, 

Shriek  but  his  boding  name; 
You'll  see  him  glitter  in  the  spear, 

And  redden  in  the  flame. 
Then — turn  ye  to  bewailing  France, 

By  ceaseless  pangs  deprest; 
He's  there,  in  every  veteran's  glance, 

In  every  soldier's  breast. 
Yea,  in  the  stormy  midnight  hour, 

When  Europe's  monarchs  start, 
They  feel  the  arm,  and  dread  the  power, 

Of  exil'd  BUONAPARTE. 
His  taste  was  bent  on  havoc  rife, 

Who  can  forget  the  wood, 
Where  murder  soil'd  her  reeking  knife 

In  brave  D  ENGHIEN'S  blood  ? 


POEMS.  141 

He  sunk,  exhausted  on  the  plain, 

Like  tempest-beaten  flowers; 
His  murderer  feels  eternal  pain, 

Through  years,  and  months,  and  hours. 
Remorse,  with  smoking  carnage  red, 

Still  rings  D'ENGHIEN'S  knell; 
Still  plucks  the  pillow  from  his  head, 

And  points  to  worse  than  hell. 
Had  he,  in  anger,  rais'd  his  arm 

'Gainst  a  vindictive  foe, 
And,  hurried  by  her  quick  alarm, 

Like  light'ning  dealt  the  blow; 
Extenuation  might  have  sought 

Some  screen  to  cover  blood; 
But  this  infernal  deed  was  wrought 

In  cool,  deliberate  mood, 
When  calm  reflection's  moonlight  shone 

Upon  the  murderer's  lair: 
Exile — I  leave  thee  there,  alone, 

Alone — thou'rt  always  there. 

But,  let  us  leave  this  dreary  theme, 
And  seek  some  happier  shore; 


142  POEMS. 

Where  genius,  wit,  and  humour  gleam, 

Upon  the  brow  of  NOAH.* 
Long  have  I  known  his  talent  rare, 

His  fascinating  power 
To  smooth  the  furrow'd  cheek  of  care, 

And  charm  the  fleeting  hour. 
There  is  a  candour  in  his  soul, 

Unknown  to  art  or  guile; 
'Tis  shackled  by  no  foe's  control, 

'Tis  bartered  for  no  smile. 
Proud  of  his  country,  of  her  fame, 

Her  government  and  laws; 
He  comes,  a  champion  in  her  name, 

To  Advocate  her  cause; 
Not  with  a  cloak,  nor  hidden  steel, 

Nor  yet,  with  rancorous  chalice; 
Too  proud  to  cherish,  or  to  feel, 

E'en  'gainst  his  foeman  malice. 


*  M.  M.  Noah,  Esq.  Author  of"  Shakspeare  Illustrated,"  and  "Noah's 
Travels." 


POEMS.  143 


All  things  must  end,  the  poet  says, 

But  it  excites  my  sorrow, 
To  end  my  solitary  lays, 

And  leave  New- York  to-morrow. 

May  she  be  blest  with  bright  renown, 

No  jealousy  provoke  her, 
Unrivall'd  as  a  trading  town, 

Immortal  for  her  CROAKER. 


144  POEMS. 


TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF 

MRS.  C.  W . 


THOUGH  others  pass  thy  cold,  unconscious   bier, 
Without  the  tender  offering  of  a  tear; 
Here  will  I  linger,  and,  with  reverence,  bend 
O'er  the  sad  dwelling  of  my  youthful  friend. 
Come,  calm  reflection,  trace  me  back  the  hours, 
When  health,  ambrosial,  strew'd  her  path  with  flowers; 
When  her  dark  hair  in  loosen'd  ringlets  flow'd, 
When  on  her  cheek  the  rose  of  Ida  glow'd; 
When  her  eyes,  beaming  with  celestial  light, 
Betray'd  no  omen  of  the  coming  night: 
That  path,  alas  !  is  now  o'erspread  with  yew; 
Those  flowers  no  more  are  bathed  in  morning  dew; 
I  see  thy  face — but  ah  !  no  smile  is  there, 
And  that  pnle  brow — 'tis  like  the  brow  of  care: 
Was  thy  pure  spirit  to  death's  arms  resign'd? 
Could'st  thou  part  calmly  with  thy  noble  mind  ? 


POEMS.  145 

For  that  has  fled — alas  !  'tis  but  transferr'd 

To  those  pure  realms  where  angel  choirs  are  heard, 

And  when  the  final  signal  shall  be  given, 

Must  be  return'd  to  fit  thy  frame  for  heaven. 


13 


146  POEMS. 


TO  MRS.  BARTLEY, 

OF    THE    NEW-YORK    THEATRE-* 

WHEN  hurried  anger,  with  unmeasur'd  art, 
Spreads,  swift  as  light'ning,  to  arouse  the  heart; 
When  fell  revenge,  or  overwhelming  rage, 
Sweeps,  like  a  mountain-torrent,  o'er  the  stage, 
HARTLEY,  unrivall'd,  still  her  claim  maintains, 
Bears  off  the  crown,  and,  like  an  empress,  reigns. 
Next  in  expression  contemplate  her  skill, 
The  power  that  reasons  when  the  lips  are  still; 
That,  quick  as  thought,  or  fleeting  fancy  roves. 
And  tells  the  youth  if  the  sly  virgin  loves. 
When  FAZIO,  summoned  by  the  fatal  bell, 
Takes,  ere  his  death,  an  agoniz'd  farewell, 
No  maddening  fury  rules  BIANCA'S  head, 
Her  conscious  spirit  seems  forever  fled; 
No  tear  appears,  no  murmur  moves  her  lips, 
The  stars  of  mind  are  veil'd  in  dark  eclipse. 

*  Formerly  Miss  Smith,  of  the  Theatres  Royal,  Covent  Garden  and 
Drury  Lane. 


POEMS.  147 

Death  stalks  abroad — and  yet  she  does  not  fear; 

She  comes  to  listen — but  she  does  not  hear; 

She  comes  to  follow — but  she  does  not  move; 

She  comes  to  bless  him — but  she  does  not  love  : 

As  though  all  nature's  attributes  had  fled, 

Or  chang'd  their  course,  she  is  alive  and  dead. 

Oh  !  it  is  magic  all:  ascend  the  throne, 

Expression  proffers  thee,  andthee  alone: 

Oft  have  I  wonder'd  at  thy  skill  before, 

And  thought  thee  great — but,  now,  I  find  thee  more. 


148  POEMS 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  LADY. 

I'M  sorry  that  a  form  so  fair 

To  error's  course  is  driven; 
Go — leave  this  pestilential  air, 

And  be — a  form  of  heaven. 

Oh !  bow  not  to  this  heedless  sway, 
But  make  thine  offering  pure; 

For  young  repentance  is  a  ray 
That  angels  still  endure. 

But  -when  pale  age  shall  bend  thee  down, 

No  seraph  shall  caress  thee; 
Then,  ministering  angels  frown, 

And  none  shall  know,  or  bless  thee. 

Oh !  cease,  while  yet  that  form  is  fair, 

Or  thou  shalt  soon  be  driven 
To  dwell  with  anguish  and  despair, 

Dower'd  with  the  curse  of  heaven. 


POEMS.  149 


TO  FRIENDSHIP. 
DEDICATED  TO  DR.  FRANCIS. 

CHILL  falls  the  rain-drop  from  the  darken'd  sky, 
O'er  the  dull  home  a  dreary  spell  is  cast; 

The  passing  wind  moans  like  a  deep-drawn  sigh, 
And  seems  prophetic  of  the  stormy  blast. 

Where  shall  I  turn  to  some  endearing  power  ? 

The  heavy  gloom  seems  gathering  on  my  breast; 
There  every  shadowy  spectre  'gins  to  lower; 

Where  shall  I  turn  for  cheerfulness  and  rest  ? 

Come,  Friendship,  smoother  of  the  rugged  way, 

Thou  minister  of  candour  and  delight; 
Thou  fairy  impulse — thou  resplendent  ray, 
Bid  o'er  the  heath  thy  heavenly  sunbeams  play, 
And  screen  the  bending  flower  from  mildew  and 
from  blight. 

Oh,  F s  !  when  by  listless  woes  distrtps'4, 

1  seek  thy  noble  mind — and  all  is  rest 

13* 


AN 


EASTERN  TALE. 


THIS  Tale  is  dedicated  to  Professor  DAVID  HOSACK,  as  a 
Memento  of  the  Author's  affection,  gratitude,  and  admi 
ration. 

"  'Tis  little,  but  'tis  all  1  have." 

SCOTT. 


HASSAN  AND  ZEOLEDE. 

As  I  journeyed  through  that  beautiful  valley  in  Thes- 
saly,  which  has  been  immortalized  by  the  people  of 
antiquity,  I  resolved  to  halt,  until  evening,  in  one  of 
those  fragrant  grottos  that  surrounded  me.  The  (low 
ers  were  lovely  as  the  blush  of  beauty,  and  the  distant 
murmur  of  fountains  was  sweet  as  the  voice  of  truth. 
Being  fatigued,  and  my  senses  becoming  soothed  by  the 
gentle  fall  of  waters,  I  reclined  upon  a  rock  under  the 
boughs  of  a  large  palm,  where  sleep  soon  overpowered 
me.  I  had  not  slept  long  before  I  was  awakened  by 
the  sound  of  a  human  voice,  which  did  not  accord  with 
the  surrounding  gayety  of  the  scene,  for  it  was  the 
voice  of  sorrow.  At  some  distance  from  me,  and  near 
a  small  sheet  of  water,  I  beheld  an  old  man;  his  coun 
tenance  was  not  in  unison  with  the  blooming  forest,  for 
it  was  the  countenance  of  affliction.  He  was  thin  and 
very  pale.  The  sun  shone  full  upon  his  visage,  and 
discovered  traces  of  no  common  grief.  The  sunshine 
added  to  the  gloom  of  his  brow,  as  the  taper  adds  more 


154  HASSAN  AND  ZEOLEDE  ; 

gloom  to  the  face  of  death.  I  resolved  to  continue 
hidden,  in  order  to  behold  him.  He  drew  near  to  the 
water,  knelt  down  by  its  side,  and  taking  a  miniature 
from  his  bosom,  turned  it  towards  the  brook  ;  he  then 
looked  down  himself,  exclaiming,  "  Now  are  we  both 
together,  Hassan  and  Zeolede.  On  thy  face,  oh  !  Zeo- 
lede,  sitteth  youth,  and  on  thy  dimpled  cheek  the 
graces  hold  their  court;  for  thy  dimples  are  like  the 
dimples  of  the  cowslip,  and  thy  teeth  are  whiter  than 
the  snow  upon  Mount  Cithaeron; — once  more  hast  thou 
brought  us  together,  thou  limpid  stream.  Thy  tremu 
lous  wave  gives  life  to  her  semblance;  her  lips  move, 
her  eyes  beam  upon  me." 

Here  he  ceased  speaking,  but  still  continued  gazing 
on  the  water;  his  eyes  seemed  fixed,  his  mind  entranced; 
his  thoughts  appeared  to  sleep  in  lethargy.  After 
some  time  he  arose,  replaced  the  miniature  in  his  bosom, 
and  proceeded  forward.  I  followed  slowly  at  a  small  dis 
tance.  After  walking  about  a  mile,  he  stopped  at  a  large 
steep  rock,  near  the  top  of  which  a  bluebell  had  climb 
ed  ;  he  considered  it  attentively  for  a  few.  minutes,  and 
said,  "  Sweet  flower,  thou  resemblest  my  fortunes  ; 
unlike  the  world,  thou  seekest  the  dwelling  of  misery,  and 
spreadest  thy  little  blossom  to  cheer  the  bosom  of  dis 
tress.  How  tranquilly  dost  thou  rest  on  my  cave ; — 


AN  E  ASTERN  TALE.  155 

so  rested  Zeolide  upon  my  bosom.  Lovely  flower,  thou 
shalt  fall  to  the  ground,  and  all  thy  beauties  be  forgotten; 
like  thee,  Zeolede  was  young;  like  her  thou  shalt  fall." 
When  he  ceased  speaking,  I  came  forward  and  said, 
"  Father,  I  am  weary,  and  the  sun  has  almost  found  his 
western  cave !  allow  me,  therefore,  to  tarry  this  night  with 
thee,  for  I  am  a  stranger."  He  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  led  me  under  the  rock,  which  formed  a  spacious 
cell.  "  My  fare  is  humble,"  said  he,  "  but  my  desires 
are  more  so  ;  that  which  is  mine  I  offer  thee  with  all 
my  heart,  and  only  regret  it  is  not  more  worthy  thy  ac 
ceptance."  After  a  frugal  repast,  the  Hermit  spread  some 
rushes,  pointed  to  them,  and  bid  God  bless  me.  Sleep 
soon  scattered  her  poppies  over  me;  sleep,  that  re 
storing  angel,  seeks  the  lowly  couch,  crowns  the  brow 
of  labour  with  roses,  leads  peace  to  the  bed  of  suffering 
virtue,  and  gives  the  captive  leave  to  roam  through  the 
blossoming  gardens  of  fancy. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  arose,  and  taking  the  Hermit 
by  the  hand,  begged  he  would  relate  the  history  of  his 
life;  adding,  "It  is  not  to  gratify  idle  curiosity  that  this  re 
quest  is  made,  but  to  store  my  mind  with  useful  informa 
tion,  and  to  hear  the  accents  of  wisdom  even  in  the 
wilderness."  He  consented,  and  wiped  from  his  cheek 


156  HASSANANDZEOLEDE; 

a  tear  which  philosophy  could  not  arrest,  nor  religion 
quite  dry  up  :  after  which,  setting  down  upon  a  fragment 
of  the  rock,  he  related  the  following  tale: — 

"  My  father  was  Grand  Vizier  to  the  Kaliph  of  Bagdat, 
and  I  was  consequently  brought  up  in  the  lap  of  magni 
ficent  profusion  ;  but  I  took  little  delight  in  the  bus 
tle  of  a  court,  having  very  early  in  life  become  enamour 
ed  of  solitude.  My  elder  brother,  Amgrad,  was  pre 
cisely  my  reverse  in  disposition,  being  pleased  with 
nothing  but  pomp  and  pageantry;  he  was  proud,  lofty 
and  overbearing.  In  consequence  of  my  taking  little 
pleasure  in  pomp  and  confusion,  I  was  seldom  in  Bag 
dat ;  besides,  I  had  imbibed  a  love  for  travelling,  and 
was  frequently  absent  four  or  five  months  at  a  time. 
In  the  course  of  my  wandering,  I  became  acquaint 
ed  with  a  Christian  misanthrope,  who  inhabited  this 
cave;  a  learned,  melancholy  man;  and,  but  for  this 
circumstance,  I  might  still  have  remained  in  that  state 
of  utter  darkness  which  overshadows  the  followers  of 
Mahomet  His  greatest  pleasure  was"  to  give  me  in 
struction  ;  he  placed  in  my  view  the  beauties  of  Chris 
tianity,  and.  finally,  I  became  his  convert.  After  this,  1 
returned  to  Bagdat,  and  attempted  to  dispel  the  mist  that 
surrounded  the  belief  of  my  father.  '  What,'  said  the 


AN  EASTERN  TALE.  1 57 

Vizier,  * hast  thou  deserted  Alia  and  Mahomet  his  pro 
phet  ?  Go,  thy  youth  hath  indeed  blinded  thee  ;  look  at 
these  Christians  closely,  and  you  will  abhor  them.  They 
are  the  worshippers  of  gold,  not  the  followers  of  Alia. 
The  poorest  Mussulman  has  more  hospitality  than  their 
Cadi ;  more  charity  than  their  Imans;  more  honesty 
than  their  Viziers.  '  Go,'  said  he  in  a  rage,  '  go  from 
my  presence  ;  before  to-morrow's  sun  kindles  his  flame 
upon  the  eastern  hills,  let  me  hear  of  thy  penitence; 
or,  by  the  beard  of  Omar,  I  swear,  thou  shalt  linger  out 
the  remainder  of  thy  existence  at  Stamboul,  in  the  dun 
geon  of  the  seven  towers !'  'Oh,  my  father,'  said  I,  'judge 
not  of  the  Christians  by  the  traders  thou  hast  seen  at 
Bagdat;  look  at  the  beauty  of  their  belief — their  faith.' 
— '  Hold,  reptile,'  replied  the  enraged  Vizier,  '  they 
have  no  belief — action  is  the  fruit  of  belief;  he  who 
believes  yon  fire  will  burn,  does  not  wantonly  thrust 
his  hand  into  it!'  To  conclude,  I  was  dowered  with  his 
curse,  and  cast  into  a  loathsome  dungeon,  where  my 
father  implored  the  prophet  to  send  his  angel  and  lead 
me  back  to  light.  Being  a  favourite,  I  soon  found 
means  to  escape,  when  I  again  visited  this  cave,  to  be 
hold  and  bless  my  more  than  father.  But — I  found  him 
dead  upon  his  couch!  I  loved  him  ;  wept  for  him,  and 

14 


J58  HASSAN  AND  ZEOLEDE; 

buried  him;  after   which  I   travelled  to   Athens,  that 
magnificent   theatre  of   arts  and  arms,   of   which  my 
benefactor  had  so  frequently  spoken.     Here,  after  dis 
posing  of  my  jewels,  I  lived  in  retirement,  till  I  became 
enamoured  of  a  lady,  who  would  have  borne  the  palm 
of  beauty  from  Helen  of  Argos,   or  the  bright-haired 
virgins  of  Circassia.     Her  ringlets  fell  almost  to  the 
ground,  and  her  eyes  like  stars  beamed  with  intellectual 
light.     She  was  almost  an  angel.     But  of  this  no  more. 
Suffice  it  to  remark,  that  I  obtained  her  hand,  and  des 
patched  a  messenger  to  the  Grand  Vizier,  giving  him 
an  account  of  my  marriage,  asking  his  forgiveness,  and 
blessing.     When  the  slave  was  admitted  to  his  presence, 
my  father  tore  his  gray  hair  in  agony,  called  upon  Alia 
for  vengeance  on  my  head,  and  vowed,  prostrate  in  the 
dust,  to  shed   my  blood,  as  a  peace-offering  to  the  pro 
phet  of  Medina.     But  the  circumstance  preyed  upon 
his  spirits,  and  he  shortly  after  died  of  a  broken  heart. 
Upon   this,   my  brother,  the    proud  Amgrad,  lost    his 
senses,  and  became  a  frantic  maniac.     He  arrayed  him 
self  in  a  robe  and  a  tiara  flaming  with  barbaric  gems, 
seated  himself   on  a  magnificent  sofa,  and  ordered  my 
messenger  into  his  presence.      After    remaining  silent 
for  some  time,  he    arose,  and  delivered   himself  thus: 


AN  EASTERN  TALE.  159 

'  Yes,  I  will  have  vengeance, — it  shall  be  painted  in 
bloody  letters  on  my  caftan. — Ha !  is  it  Hassan  :  does 
he  smile  upon  his  father's  corpse?  'Twas  thou  who  didst 
tear  those  gray  hairs  by  the  root,  to  cast  them  in  the  dust. 
Athens !  my  steel  shall  glitter  in  thy  streets;  thy  mothers 
shudder  at  my  approach,  thy  towers  tremble  at  my  foot 
steps.  Alia !  strengthen  the  arm  of  thy  minister,  and  direct 
his  dagger  aright.  Go,'  said  he,  ;  inform  the  apostate 
murderer,  that  when  Amgrad  wakes  he  remembers  Has 
san — when  Amgrad  sleeps  he  dreams  of  Hassan.' 

"  Upon  receiving  intelligence  of  these  disasters,  I  was 
overcome  by  immoderate  grief,  and  almost  lost  my 
senses;  but  Zeolede  ministered  to  my  afflictions  like  an 
angel  of  comfort,  and  whispered  the  accents  of  religious 
peace  to  my  soul.  Soon  after  this  I  was  blessed  with 
a  son.  Two  years  had  scarcely  elapsed  since  my 
father's  death,  when  news  was  brought  that  the  unhappy 
Amgrad  had  followed  him  to  an  early  grave.  One  even 
ing,  when  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  reflected 
from  the  lofty  spires  of  Athens,  Zeolede  and  myself 
beheld  from  a  portico  the  awful  sublimity  of  the  scene. 
Suddenly  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  guitar  near  the  Acro 
polis,  and  soon  afterwards  a  melancholy  voice  accom 
panied  the  instrument  with  the  following  lines  :  . 


1 60  HASSAN  AND  ZEOLEDE ; 

* 

*  Hail,  temple  high  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
And  mouldering  spire  and  pale  gray  stone, 
All  hail  !  ye  suit  my  pensive  breast ; 
Within  your  pale  I'll  seek  for  rest; 
Once  were  thy  walls  with  banners  drest, 
And  through  thy  portals  chieftains  prest, 
And  smiles  bespoke  triumphant  glee, 
But  now — thy  walls  resemble  me. 

'  The  weeds  that  wave  upon  thy  stair, 
Are  tangled  like  my  raven  hair; 
Her  storm  has  stain'd  thy  marble  white, 
And  tears  congeal'd  have  dimm'd  my  sight. 
In  youth  how  gaily  pass'd  my  hours, 
I  wak'd  to  wealth,  and  slept  on  flowers, 
And  smiles  bespoke  triumphant  glee, 
But  now — thy  walls  resemble  me.' 

"  The  music  ceased,  and  we  beheld  a  man  clad  in  the 
habit  of  a  pilgrim,  who  craved  admittance  for  the  night. 
This  was  readily  granted.  His  robe  was  torn,  his  feet 
bare  and  wounded,  and  his  lace  almost  hidden  by  a  large 
hat  pulled  closely  down.  Zeolede  proffered  him  a  robe 
and  sandals,  but  he  refused  them,  adding,  in  a  hollow 
voice,  '  Affliction  seeketh  not  costly  raiments,  neither 


AN  EASTERN  TALE.  16 1 

does  she  wander  upon  flowers;  nevertheless  I  revere 
thy  hospitality,  and  thou  shalt  be  rewarded.  Long  have 
f  wandered  in  search  of  a  murderer;  he  too  possesses 
hospitality.  Surely  thou  art  fairer  than  the  Houris  in 
paradise. — Yes,  it  shall  be  so.'  He  started  up  in  an 
instant,  and,  with  the  quickness  of  lightning,  stabbed 
Zeolede  to  the  heart;  off  fell  his  outward  disguise; 
when  my  brother  of  Bagdat  stood  before  me,  arrayed 
in  eastern  magnificence.  Motionless  with  horror — fixed 
like  a  statue  I  stood.  '  Thou  seest,  Hassan,  that  Amgrad 
remembered  thee  when  awake — when  asleep  he  dream 
ed  of  thee.  He  swore  to  use  his  dagger,  and  called  on 
Alia  to  direct  it  aright.  Amgrad  has  not  shed  one  drop 
of  thy  blood,  but  still  his  dagger  has  reached  thy  heart. 
I  am  revenged — go  thou  forth  and  rule  in  Bagdat.' 
He  then  raised  the  dagger  and  stfiote  his  bosom  :  his 
diamonds  impeded  the  full  progress  of  the  blade,  but 
the  wound  was  mortal.  '  Oh !  thou  lovely  ghost,'  said 
Amgrad,  go — speed  thee  to  paradise;  there  rule  su 
preme;  take  thou  the  crescent  from  the  fairest  brow 
and  place  it  on  thine  own.  Comb  down  my  father's 
locks — they  are  torn  out  by  the  roots;  carry  them  to 
him;  teli  him  relent  Amgrad  sent  thee— go,  be  hi$ 
daughter  now.  Oh,  Alia !  pour  out  thy  cold  dews  upon 
my  brow,  and  place  thy  hand  upon  my  beating  heart:' — 
He  died.  I  had  forgotten  to  say,  that  when  Zeolede  fell. 


162  HASSAN  AND  ZEOLEDE; 

four  men  entered  in  masks,  two  of  whom  disappeared 
with  our  child,  while  the  other  two  held  me.     Allow 
me  to  throw  a  veil  over  what  followed;  and  let  those 
who  love,  ponder  on  my  sufferings  by  imagining  them 
selves  in  my  situation.     Premature  age  spread  his  snow 
upon  my  head,  and  the  hand  of  affliction  left  channels 
upon  my  brow.     After  making  many  fruitless  inquiries 
for  my  child,  and  searching  in  vain  for  the  place  of  his 
concealment,    I    once    more  sought  this  friendly  cell. 
Here  have  I  continued  for  twenty  years.     When  the 
flowers  bloom  they  remind  me  of  Zeolede;  when  they 
drop  their  blossoms,  I  mourn  her  loss;  when  again  they 
bud  in  the  spring  season,  I  look  forward  to  a  meeting 
that  may  take  place  in  heaven.     But  my  son  must  be 
left  behind;    he  shall  not   smooth  his  father's  rushes, 
close  his   father's  eyes,   receive  his   father's  blessing. 
He  shall  not  be  folded  to  this  desolate  heart,  nor  shall  I 
again  behold  the  cross  impressed  upon  his  bosom."     At 
these  words,  I  started  and  exclaimed,  '  Oh  heavens!  my 
father,  here,  here  is  that  mark.'     I  bared  my  bosom. 
His  eyes  were  glazed — he  fell.     He  took  from  his  breast 
the  miniature — his  eyes   sparkled  again :    "  'Tis  your 
mother's — it  leaves    me — we  part — hold    it  fast,  thou 
long  lost  stranger.  I  will  tell  Zeolede  in  heaven"  ****** 
he  ceased.      The  autumnal   leaf  falls    silently  to  the 
ground;  the   last  breeze   on    the  mountain's  bosom  is 


AN  EASTERN  TALE.  1 63 

scarcely  heard,  and  the  dew-drop  falls  almost  noiseless 
from  the  flower:  io  a  whisper  soft  as  these,  he  said, 
"  I  will  tell  her  that  her  son  is" — ****  he  expired, 
and  silence  threw  her  pall  over  the  unfortunate  Hassan 
forever. 

"  Thus,  must  the  wounded  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep, 
So  goes  this  world  away." 


THE  END. 


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